


The Glass Mosaic

by HackedByAWriter



Series: The Glass Mosaic and Related Stories [1]
Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: :), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Chaman Chacha is a Good Bro, Character Death, Child Death, Consent, Death, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Description, I mean if we can have dragons in fantasy why not diversity?, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrigue, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Near Death Experiences, Other, Pain, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Poetry, Political Alliances, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Reverse Shakespearean Tragedy, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Swearing, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Torture, Tragic Romance, Very long, Violence, War, Worldbuilding, a little bit of crack but that's okay, basically this world is very LGBT positive, bearded!aman, because, consensual romantic relationships always, gays can get married in this fantasy world, hate them, kill them for making me extend depression week, long fic, mehan sucks, the author had 99 regrets but this fic ain't one of them, the probably the only good this about this fic, the rape is not between the mains, yes kaali gobhi is a fucking character in this don't touch me, you can Julius caesar me at the end I deserve it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 55
Words: 260,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HackedByAWriter/pseuds/HackedByAWriter
Summary: ."I think," he whispered. "I think if I gave you everything I had you would treat it with kindness."The kingdoms of Mahan and Akhtar have been at war for three centuries. For ten years King Aman of Mahan has nurtured an especial hatred for the King Kartik of Akhtar for killing his father Shankar during the ill-fated Battle of the Broken Will. For ten years his vengeance grew till it clouded reason itself. However, when the disputed region of Balkar is attacked by an unknown enemy the two kings must to learn to trust each other and unite the two kingdoms in a way that had never been done before.
Relationships: Chaman Tripathi/Champa Tripathi, Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi, Kusum/Goggle Tripathi, Ravi/Devika, Sunaina Tripathi/Shankar Tripathi, basically every characters interacts with everyone fjdhk
Series: The Glass Mosaic and Related Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987714
Comments: 1009
Kudos: 504





	1. The Legend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daydreamingstoryteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamingstoryteller/gifts).



> for mehan, my only valid parent, bc I know you are hella busy and probably won't be able to help out as you wanted to, so this story is dedicated to you for high key pushing me to write this.

I remember seeing Kartik, King of Akhtar, as a boy. He was already tall for his age, with brilliant flashing dark eyes, bold smile and laugh that filled the hollows of every room. It seemed that those characteristics followed him through the years and remained despite countless wars, battles and personal losses. I had only one hope when I first met him, I had hoped his fire would never burn out.

\- The Writings of Parvaz, scholar and contemporary of King Kartik, dated 709 OA.

The day my cousin, King Aman of Mahan, came to the throne he was an eleven-year-old boy. It was a black day for everyone, we had just lost our King, my uncle, Shankar at the hands of the then fourteen-year-old boy King of Akhtar, Kartik. Aman was as solemn as ever, even eleven years old he understood the responsibility and the weight of the crown. He did not weep that day, though he had a heart of gold, he also possessed a spine of steel. Through the lamentations, watching his mother’s tears, Aman held his father’s sword and vowed before the whole kingdom that he would bring the King of Akhtar to his knees. We didn’t know the true meaning of his statement until many years later, I suspect he didn’t know either.

\- Extract from the Journal of Keshav Tripathi, cousin and advisor to King Aman, dated 704 0A. 

_And so his yearning heart_

_thundered against the night sky_

_he will surely fall for they built_

_his pedestal narrow and high_

\- Extract from The Glass Mosaic (otherwise known as the Epic of Kartik and Aman), 700 OA.

  
  


Their tale, immortalised in the Glass Mosaic, has been told over and over again in legend and in song. It has become an essential part of our culture and how could it not? Two warring kingdoms brought together by love. In a way you could say their love shaped history like nothing ever could.

\- The Writings of Serafinni, Queen of Dilaram (formerly the kingdoms of Akhtar and Mahan) 3081 OA.

The days when I was but a humble bard, traveling alongside Serafinni, The Glass Mosaic was requested, more often than any other song. One would expect you to be sick of it after a while. But there was something about their tale, about their love that inspired. Love it seems knows no repetition. Even though Serafinni initially pretended to hate it, trying to keep up an image of the cynical warrior, I remember on our wedding night, she asked me to sing some verses. She wept then.

\- Extract, from the Book of Songs by Laila the Bard, Queen Consort to Serafinni Queen of Dilaram 3081 OA.


	2. The Vengeful King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I havent properly edited, excuse the drop in quality.

699 OA (Old Age)

They say revenge was his lover

He burns with desire for that flame

Oh noble King of Mahan, exalted 

If only you knew where your arrows aim?

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Aman had been king in name for ten years. 

Ten years since the day his father died and every waking moment had been spent roiling in a sea of revenge. _Revenge, vengeance, retribution._ Call it what you will, it coursed through his veins, redder and hotter than blood. He was devoted to it. Every time he trained there was a steely glare in his eyes, his body had honed itself to the weight of his father’s sword. He will use it to kill his father’s killer. Aman wasn’t particularly fond of poetry, but he could not deny the poetic justice in that. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined the man he was to kill before him.

Karthik Singh, the Boy King of Akhtar, a boy no longer, and perhaps, one day, no longer king or even alive. He had never seen him, but he found a particular pleasure in trying to imagine him as the ugliest man in existence. The Kartik in his mind was a fat, stinking, despot, with a cruel face and greasy hair sticking out from the most unseemly places.

  
  


Today, however, he tried to put that aside. Today marked the tenth year since Aman’s ascension to the throne, the twenty-first year of his life, the last year of Kaali’s regency, and the first true year of his reign. 

He stood in his chambers. A short while ago he had dismissed the servants whose purpose was to help him get ready. “I’m twenty-one” he had told them with a smile. “I think I know how to put on my own clothes.”

His garments were powder blue with golden accents, a cloak of royal blue to match. He had let his beard grow for the occasion, it gave his features a gravitas, and would become a symbol, to show he was older and mature enough to take the throne. Everything about Kingship was symbolic, he had learned that when he was seven years old and his father had very publicly and ‘mercifully’ pardoned a man from execution. Then he had the same man beaten almost to death in private.

Kingship had always been a public display with corruption festering behind its clean facade. Aman wanted to change that, he wanted to do many things. But revenge was first and foremost in his mind. He will kill the Akhtari King first then, _then_ he will move on.

He picked up the gold cloth that the servants had laid out for him and started in the well-practiced art of turban tying. He wound it around his head, in a simple yet elegant style with swift, deft, military precision. In the end, there was not a thread nor a crease was out place. 

“Your majesty,” a voice from the door called.

Aman turned to see a young serving boy, of about twelve, standing timidly at the door. He must have been new, for Aman did not know his name. He prided himself in knowing the name of almost every servant that worked in the palace.

“Yes?” he asked the boy.

“The Queen Mother has told me to come and tell you that it is nearly time.”  
  


“Thank you,” said Aman, giving the nervous boy what he hoped was a warm smile, it seemed to work, the boy visibly relaxed. “What is your name?”

“Golan your majesty,” he said bowing.

“Tell my mother I will be there soon, Golan,” he told him, he went over to the dresser and took out a brooch, it had been his father’s, gold with sapphires in the shape of an eagle, the symbol of Akhtar. He motioned for the boy, Golan, to come forward and placed it in his palm. “For your trouble.”

The boy's eyes lit up. The brooch was worth more than what he earned in half a year, perhaps even more than he earned in a year. He could sell it and provide quite well for his family. More likely though the boy will keep it and over the generations, it would become a family heirloom, the story attached to it becoming more glorious as it passed down, from lips to minds to souls. 

The boy left and Aman was alone in his chambers once again. He took one last look at himself, ran a finger through the folds of his golden turban and held his chin high. He, Aman Tripathi, son of King Shankar and Queen Sunaina, was ready to truly take up the throne.

~~~

Rajini stood in the front row of the throne room and leaned against a marble pillar. Her good eye studied the intricate intaglio of flowers carved into the marble. If she was going to be honest, it was a pretty pillar. But she didn’t have to be honest, so she contented herself by drawing a dagger from her waist, plunging it into the pillar and then picking methodically away at the petals of a carved rose. It was hard to believe that today, her cousin Aman would be crowned as King, a proper King. 

To her, he was still that little boy who would excitedly tell her about what he had learned from his tutors. The little boy who had wept in her arms when he lost his father. Her little _guddu_. Yes he had grown up, yes he was a man now, hardened and wrought by revenge, but there were moments, small, barely noticeable, where he would forget about the shadow that weighed down on him, and the boy would shine through. 

Rajini loved those moments, but they were becoming rarer as the years went by. She had a thought, a pervading ridiculous thought that that had become more prominent as Aman got older. The thought was this: the day that Aman took up the crown for good would be the day he would lose the soft boyish side of him. That was something she dreaded.

At least she too will be honoured too today. That was something.

“Stop it!” hissed a voice beside her, Rajini didn’t have to turn to know that it was Champa Tripathi, her mother. “You will ruin the pillar.”

“It is already ruined,” she lied, defiantly driving her dagger deeper into the pillar, small cracks appearing in the carved rose. “If anything I am improving its looks.”

“You could have tried to improve your own looks,” Champa huffed. “Your cousin is to be crowned today, and you are wearing black and still in your armour.”

Rajini almost laughed at that. She was 28 years old and had been fighting in battles ever since she was sixteen. She held command of her own group of men at the age of eighteen and had lost her left eye the same year, in the very battle that Mahan lost their king, Shankar. She had spent her years studying every book on military strategy, studying the tactics of Ehsan the Conqueror, the greatest military mind in the history of Mahan and Akhtar combined. Yet her mother still insisted on critiquing her choice of clothes as if she was a five-year-old girl and not the next Commander-in-Chief of Mahan.

Keshav, her brother, who stood on the other side of Champa visibly rolled his eyes. It was hard to believe he had grown up too, even though he was two years older than Aman. Harder yet to believe he would be honoured with a position as Vizier. This day not only marked Aman’s coming of age and ascension to the throne but also a change of a new era. The old advisors were to be retired, replaced by those who Aman trusted. Fresh faces for a fresh reign. A destruction of the old and the rise of the new. It made more than perfect sense. If only he would let go of that age-old hatred for the king of Akhtar. 

It was then that Rajini spied a flurry of bright yellow silk rushing through the throne room. In spite of herself, she found herself turning to look, found her heart beating, her cheeks flushing. Her dagger had slipped away from the carved rose on the pillar. Instead, she tried to steady herself, tried to look away but she could not. Her grip on the dagger tightened as Kusum made her way to the front of the throne room and took her place between Rajini and Champa.

She looked especially beautiful today, her cheeks flushed from having run all the way from her chambers to here, her dark eyes held their perpetual glitter of mirth. Her hair, which she wore loose, was slightly mussed. It only served to bring out a strange sort of wildness in her otherwise sweet features. The yellow dress made it seem as if she had encapsulated the very rays of the sun in her body. Rajini felt the muscles in her neck tighten, her grip around her dagger painful, her knucles were probably whiter than snow.

“Have you been at the pillar again?” Kusum asked Rajini, giving the mutilated carved rose a quizzical look. Her voice came out in that sweet breathless ease that Rajini found distracting.

Rajini shrugged and was saved from giving a bumbling answer (the only kind of answer she was able to give Kusum nowadays it seemed), by the blowing of the trumpets to announce the royal procession. The first people to arrive were Sunaina, the Queen Mother and Kaali, the regent. The two people who had ruled during Aman’s minority years. They took their places on either side of the gilded throne. 

There was a hush in the room now, as the crowd waited to see their king. 

And Aman Tripathi did not disappoint. When he strode into the room, he walked as if it belonged to him. His father’s sword was strapped to his waist and he rested his hand on it with a calculated casual grace. His face was solemn, even more so for his short beard. 

There were no traces of the boy, not even traces of the man. What she saw was a _king_ and despite herself, she hated it. He strode down the throne room, his gaze steadily on the throne, the gold accents of his clothes, glittering palely in the sunlight. 

When he finally sat on it and Sunaina pinned the kalgi on his turban and arranged the sapphire laden threads, Rajini felt her heart sink. That old thought came back and her suspicions were now carved in stone. The traces of the boy were gone for good, what remained was a king and a vengeful one.

  
  



	3. The King of Scars

His body was an altar where even

Holy men would perform sacrilege 

O King of Akhtar, beauteous, divine

The will sing of your great courage

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Kartik sat on the opulent throne, surrounded by his advisors, a leg slung casually over the armrest. To an unwitting eye, it may have looked like he was bored, unfocused. It may have looked as if, any moment now, he might contemplate the state of his nails. But those who knew him knew that was not true. In reality, Kartik was listening with rapt attention to his advisor, Parvaz, who was relaying the state of Akhtar’s borders.

“And what news of our Western borders?” Kartik finally asked, in a low drawl. 

He had always been curious but Akhtar’s age-old enemy, Mahan, even when he had been a little boy and despite having fought against them. _Know your enemy better than your allies_. He had scoured every book in the library, the answers he had found were less than satisfactory.

“Not much your majesty,” continued Parvaz. “Communication between the two states is, you know, forbidden unless it is between the kings or queens in a time of war. But according to what we _do_ know, the new king, Aman, is of age.”  
  


“Of age?” Kartik questioned, another advisor, Chanchal, was about to give an explanation but Karthik cut him off. “No wait, I’m sure I’ve read this, their customs dictate that a certain age is the age of adulthood and a king can only truly be king when he has reached that age. Aman was eleven wasn’t he, when the Battle of the Broken Will was fought? That would make him twenty-one now, thus making the age of adult-hood also twenty-one.”

He thought it a strange custom. He himself had been crowned King at the age of fourteen. In Akhtar, you either held the throne or you did not. There was no such thing as a regency.

“Well deduced your Majesty,” Chanchal acknowledged. 

This ‘deduction’ would have been easier if King Jahan had not orchestrated the Great Burning. 

It was a tale every child thought they knew. A princess raped and killed and her father citing war as revenge. 

But only Kartik knew the true story. The documents had been scant but he had found them. Three hundred years ago, Akhtar and Mahan had been allies. A delegation from Mahan had arrived in Akhtar to negotiate a new trade deal, among the delegation, had been Prince Aayush. As the tale goes the Prince had fallen in love with King Jahan’s daughter, the Princess Taharin, and she him.

When Jahan saw the couple happy in an embrace he had grown jealous and possessive. He had Aayush stripped, tortured and in the end, left him half-dead hanging by a wrist from the castle walls. He had made his daughter watch every day, as they administered new horrors on Aayush’s body. After five consecutive days of watching. Taharin had taken a sword from one of the guards and had killed Aayush, her last act of mercy before she threw herself off the battlements. 

In his grief and rage, King Jahan had taken all the writings concerning Mahan, records, ledgers, even holy books and burned them.

Hearing of the sacrilege, the people of Mahan had done the same. 

The Great Burning they had called it. The beginning of ignorance, propaganda, misconstruements and of course three centuries of war.

Three centuries filled with dead warriors, dead kings, songs, and legends written in blood. During those communication, trade, and travel were forbidden between the two countries, all culminating in now, Karthik sitting on the throne, pondering, anticipating the next few bates of attacks from Mahan. The other country had been quiet for longer than he was comfortable with.

Kartik straightened up a little and a thought entered his head, he voiced it “Do you think the new king hates me?”

“You did kill his father,” it was Devika who spoke the obvious then. “It would not be hard to imagine that he is most likely plotting revenge right now.”

Devika was his childhood friend and most trusted advisor. He heeded her advice more than he would heed anyone else’s. But right now he wished she hadn’t spoken. He felt stupid. Of course, the Mahanite king hated him. Karthik would hate himself too if he were in his position. 

He was taken aback to the day he had fought in the Battle of the Broken Will.

He had been fourteen freshly crowned and eager to prove himself. His heart beating for the thirst of glory, burnished by song and tales of war. He still remembered thinking as he sat astride his horse, his sword drawn _they will sing songs for me._

He learned only a few seconds later that the songs of war were a bright burning fallacy. Battle and war, _true_ battle and war had nothing of glory in them. They had written him a song, yes in the end he got what he wanted. They had immortalised him. The boy king, the saviour, the king who had brought peace and prosperity for ten years. 

But they would never sing of how he had been toppled off his horse within the first ten minutes of the battle. They will not sing of how he had lost his helm at the same time. How he had wandered around in a daze, covered in mud and the blood of other men, better men than he. He had insisted on not having his kingsguard with him during the battle, he had sorely regretted it. 

And killing King Shankar? That had been a pure accident. He had felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, it had taken him a moment to register that someone had driven a sword through the weak point in his armour. He had reacted, engaged in the most furious battle for his life. The training yard had not prepared him for this. He hadn’t realised that his sword had gone clean through the other man’s neck until the blood had sprayed in his face. He had looked back, watching as the life left Shankar’s eyes turning them to stone. 

His shoulder now started to ache. Kartik shifted on the throne, his relaxed position now stiffened, which only irritated his shoulder more. The memories will never leave him. His shoulder was a painful reminder of that.

“Kartik?” came the voice of a concerned Devika. “Shall I call the physician?”

He waved her off and gave her a winning smile, even though he knew _she_ of all people would see through it. It was then the door of the throne room opened to reveal a man, his clothes torn and soiled. Exhaustion was laden in the very way he held himself but was also alert. Fear in his eyes as he entered flanked by two guards.

The man was led before Kartik who regarded him, before motioning for him to stand. 

“State your name and your business.” Kartik said, assuming a more kingly voice.

“I am Neeran from the village of Kashatr,” said the man, he froze, unable to talk.

Kartik mentally brought up a map of the country. Kashatr was in the disputed region of Balkar between the nations of Akhtar and Mahan. After the Battle of the Broken Will, though there had been peace, it wasn’t official. There was no treaty, no resumption of trade. Nothing. Both nations claimed it was theirs and for all purposes, the region of Balkar belonged to both of them. A crack in the proverbial wall, so they say.

“Speak!” Karthik commanded, impatient at the man’s silence, the pain in his shoulder adding an edge to his voice.

“Our village was attacked,” the man said softly. “They slaughtered us, they...my daughter...”

Neeran started weeping.

“Do you know who it was?” the calming voice of Parvaz, broke through the man’s sobs. “Were they wearing blue and gold, or red and silver?”

Blue and Gold for Mahan. Red and Silver for Akhtar.

“I could not tell, they wore no colours we could recognise,” admitted Neeran. “We are simple folk, my King, we do not know who our true ruler is, our region has been exchanged between the nations like a whore, but I bow before you now, as a representative, I beg. If you had ordered this attack we will submit, if you did not we ask for your aid.”

“I did not order this attack,” said Kartik truthfully. “And I promise you I will do all in my power to help you, you are under my protection now.”

So this was the Mahanite king’s plan, he was hell-bent on revenge it seemed. It was clever of him, Kartik had to admit, to wait so long and to have this be his first act as king. It showed strength, cunning, and patience which Kartik admired. It was all the more clever for having the soldiers that had attacked the village to be wearing ambiguous colours. This will no doubt create confusion and divide loyalties, making it easier for Aman to conquer the region. 

Kartik rose from the throne. He suspected that he would need an extra dose of opium tonight to sleep soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from me: 
> 
> not all is as it seems :))) And no he's not an opium addict.


	4. The Rotten Web

They say there is life eternal

in the ice of winter's breath

An in bright sweet summer

The rot and decay of death

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

As soon as Aman entered the banquet hall, Kaali slung an arm around his shoulder and brought him into a warm hug. Aman returned the hug as politely as he could, knowing that it was only the first of many to come. Kaali’s eyes shone with something, whether it was pride or happiness or something else, Aman wasn’t bothered to figure out.

“Your father would have been proud,” Kaali said, pulling away.

“Your help has been instrumental,” said Aman. “I wouldn’t have been here without you or Mother.”

He meant it in earnest, the court would have devoured him as any court would when faced with the challenge of a stubborn solemn eleven-year-old boy who wanted to do nothing else but to wage war against another kingdom. He knew they wanted to use all their wiles to bind him with their rotten webs of steel and then bring him down and replace him. 

They would have done that and worse, had Kaali and Sunaina not urged patience, had they not helped guide him through the intricate web that was politics. _If you want revenge_ Kaali had said _if you want to wield a sword and drive it through Kartik’s heart, you need to make sure you can stand on your own two feet._

He needed his court firmly behind his and they had shown him what it meant to rule. What could he feel other than gratitude? Now he could finally focus on the goal that he had always wanted to without having to give his attention to petty court matters.

Kaali’s hand was still on his shoulder, “Your mother has been wanting to see you the whole day, come with me. You know how she is when she doesn’t get her way.”

Aman did in fact know, which was why he let himself be led by Kaali. He almost regretted this decision, when he saw who was standing beside his mother. It was Kusum. She looked especially radiant today, in yellow silk, no doubt a gift from his mother. Sunaina herself stood tall and proud in deep blue brocade. They made a strange contrast, no one watching would have guessed that this grave middle-aged woman and this charming young girl had become fast friends, but they did. 

Kusum was an orphan, most likely the daughter of Lord Acharya, whose family had been killed only last year during an internal conflict between petty lords. She claimed to have lost her memory during the conflict which Aman had thought suspicious at first, but she bore a ring with the insignia of Lord Acharya and it was genuine. She also held herself in the manner of a noblewoman, with such charm and poise, that Sunaina, bristly and nagging at the best of times, had taken to her immediately. The situation would have been wonderful if Sunaina wasn’t so insistent on marrying Aman off to her. He also wasn’t blind to the affection that Rajini held for this woman which made matters infinitely worse.

Aman liked women. Some of the most brilliant minds and souls he knew were women. But he liked them as friends and companions, his personal preference, when it came to romance or bedding, will always be, for men.

It wasn’t that relationships between two men or two women were forbidden in Mahan, nor were marriages of any kind, a problem. The fact simply was that as a King, Aman had a duty to produce an heir. There were many ways in which this could be done but marrying a woman happened to be the most convenient of them. 

“Aman,” Sunaina spoke as she went forward to greeted him with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. “My little guddu, look at you now, your Papa would have been so proud.”

He ignored the mention of his father and focused on his mother’s touch. He hadn’t realised how starved of affection he had been today until he found himself smiling. Yes he was a king and he was focused on his goal of king killing (and he supposed building a better kingdom), but that didn’t mean he didn’t crave human touch from time to time. 

Once he pulled away from his mother’s hold Kusum curtsied prettily and he acknowledged her with a nod of his head.

“I should congratulate you, your majesty,” she said smiling. “I can only hope that your reign will be a good one.”

“Thank you Kusum,” he said, trying not to sound awkward. He would be going to go through a thousand variations of 'thank yous' before the night was through, he might as well get some practice in.

But before they could continue their conversation, he felt a tap at his shoulder. He turned to Keshav, his sheepish grin nowhere to be seen. Behind him was Rajini, her arms crossed, a frown on her face. 

“You need to come with us,” said Keshav.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kusum.

“Something important,” snapped Rajini. 

No this wasn’t right. Rajini was not one to snap at Kusum of all people. Everyone else was fair game. That was when Aman knew something was wrong.

~~~

The woman who sat in the council room held a baby in her arms. Her clothes were torn, her body scratched. Blood ran down from a wound at her temple. She was standing with Pehchal who was giving her a glass of water. When she saw Aman enter with Keshav and Rajini she shrank back a little, clutching the baby closer to her. Aman knew that look. He had worn it himself when they told him his father had died.

“What’s your name?” he asked kindly as he took a seat opposite her.

“Yadita,” she said. “I’ve come from Kashatr.”  
  


“In Balkar?” he asked. “You’ve traveled a long way.”

The disputed region. This wasn’t going to end well.

“Yes, I came to meet you, our village was attacked,” she said. “We do not know who they were, they wore no colour, did you order the attack?”

“You are brave to come here, knowing that I may have ordered the attack. But no,” said Aman. “It must have been that bastard King of Akhtar.”

Rage burgeoned inside of him, smouldering like slow-burning coals. First, this Kartik Singh killed his father and now he was attacking his people. He did this on the day of his coronation too. No doubt he thought as a new King Aman would be tractable, weak and unprepared. No doubt he meant it as an insult. 

“I won’t let this stand,” Aman promised, his voice a low whisper, held all the danger of a sword. 

But could not deny a sense of relief. Here was an opportunity. No one will object now. Aman had been working through many ways in which he could wage war against Akhtar. All his plans had been subtle and meticulous, to incite a response from the Akhtari King. But it seemed he should not have bothered. The King of Akhtar had handed him this opportunity on a gilded platter. 

“Make sure that Yadita is given a room and is well looked after,” Aman said to Keshav, then he turned to Rajini. “You are Commander-In-Chief now are you not?”

“Yes, your majesty,” replied Rajini. 

At this moment they were no longer Aman and Rajini. No longer cousins or even friends. This was a King and his Commander-In-Chief.

“And what words did you speak to me as you knelt before my throne and pledged your service?”

Rajini spoke the words of her pledge “The sword falls on my shoulder and now my service begins. I seek no crowns or glory only serve and protect. I am the shield of Mahan. Nothing more nothing less.”

“We will go to war, I will kill him. This I vow.” said Aman. The words left his heart shuddering. He had waited ten years to say them after all. 

  
  



	5. The Declarations of War

Daggers of ice, chains of blood

When will it stop, how did it start?

Kingdoms will be shattered to dust

O, King is that a stone or a heart?

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

The palace had long gone to sleep, but Aman was wide awake. The banquet had gone on without him and he knew his absence would be noted. He knew that even now as the guests, the noblemen, and noblewomen lay in their beds, they thought and whispered amongst themselves. He knew they sensed that something was wrong. 

Aman sat on the throne in an empty room. Only a few hours ago, it had been brimming with laughter, cheers and raucous celebration. And light. Light most of all. Soon he will be king of a dark and broken kingdom, not for the first time he wondered whether killing Kartik was going to be worth it. But no, he had not started this. Kartik had forced his hand by attacking Balkar.

“You should sleep,” came a voice from the other end of the hall. Aman knew it was his mother’s. Only then did he realise that his fists were clenched. He relaxed them.

“I cannot sleep, not tonight.” he admitted.

He heard Sunaina’s footsteps before he saw her. When she did appear he noted she was still wearing the blue brocade gown. She must not have slept either.

“You used to be such a happy little boy.”

It was the first time she had made such a complaint. Even when he vowed vengeance in front of the whole kingdom, she had stood by silent. He suspected, had she been allowed, that she would have gotten on a horse and killed Kartik herself at that moment. But where her sense of vengeance has softened and withered away like a rose, his had been hardened and tempered like steel.

“I grew up.” Aman said. 

“You weren’t at the banquet.”

  
  
“The Scum of Akhtar has attacked Balkar, there was a woman with a baby who had fled Kashatr to tell us, we are going to war.”

Sunaina stepped up to the dais and took his face in her hands. “Leave Balkar, leave this vengeance. It will destroy you. The fault is mine, I should have stopped this long ago.”  
  


“Where is your loyalty mother?” he asked, there was an edge to his tone. “They killed my father, your husband, they killed our people.”

“And we go on and on killing each other,” said Sunaina mournfully. “When will it stop?”

“It will stop when I kill him.” Aman replied firmly. 

Something shifted in Sunaina’s features. The pressure of her fingers on his face grew. Before she could say anything, brisk footsteps echoed through the room. In came Keshav, still dressed in finery, eyes red from a night scouring the library.

“I found it!” he said, rushing towards them holding out a book. “I found it! They must have missed this book during the Great Burning, but I found it!”

“Found what?” Sunaina asked.

Keshav bowed as if only just noticing her presence.

“The declaration of war.” supplied Aman. “We are to send one to Akhtar.”

One would think that since Mahan and Akhtar had been at war for three centuries, Aman would surely know how Mahan traditionally declared war. But ever since the Great Burning that was not the case. The history books called the past three centuries The Three Hundred Year War. 

Akhtar and Mahan had known no reprieve. 

There had always been battle after battle happening, there were always regions being exchanged and fought over between the borders in those three-hundred years. This ten-year peace after the Battle of the Broken Will, where Aman’s father had died, was an anomaly. 

Besides the Three Hundred year war had been declared by Akhtar, the last time _Mahan_ had sent a declaration of war had been a century or so before that. No one was sure though. The Great Burning, the destruction of the history between two nations had ensured the ignorance. In fact, Aman did not even know how Akhtar traditionally declared war. All records of _that_ declaration had been destroyed, though the histories do go into great detail about how the Mahanite King of that time, Jatinder, had tortured the emissaries who had delivered the declratation.

“Pray tell us what it is,” said Aman.

“A black iron dagger embedded with sapphires,” said Keshav, opening the book to the correct page. “It is called the Cold Dagger. Here it says that traditionally when Mahan gives the gift of this dagger the meaning behind it is ‘I give you the gift of a weapon so you can arm yourself while you can, I come to wage war.’”

“Are you to send an emissary?” asked Sunaina.

Aman thought of how Jahan had tortured Prince Aayush all those years ago when Mahan had gone there for trade negotiations. He thought of how Jahan had made his daughter Taharin watch. Everyone in Mahan had thought that Taharin had seduced Aayush and had been an accomplice to the torture. But Aman knew otherwise. He had studied the scant documents and journals of the time and knew of how the Akhtari princess had mercifully killed her lover before killing herself.

The Akhtari were cruel to their own kind and worse to their enemies. 

“Send a man and a horse. The horse shall bear colourings of our nation, with a gold eagle seal. Much has been lost between our nations but surely they will recognise our sigils. Have the man leave the horse outside the city gates of Akhtar’s Capital.” he said. “I want no more meaningless blood to be spilled until we commence a true battle.”

  
  


~~~

“Relax your shoulder,” the physician, Qabid, instructed, as he methodically massaged the shoulder in question. “It’s a wonder you haven’t damaged it permanently.”

“I’m probably the worst patient you’ve ever had.” Kartik’s words came out muffled with a hint of mocking mournfulness, he was lying face down amongst the pillows.

“No, I've had worse,” said Qabid.

“Am I the best?”

“I’ve had better.”

“But I am your favourite am I not?”

“Yes, Kartik you are my favourite.”

“You're my favourite physician too,” said Kartik turning his head back to give Qabid a smile. 

Qabid gave Kartik a smile of his own before saying “I’m the only physician you let anywhere near you, I should hope so.”

It was true. Kartik had been a young boy, around six or seven when he first met Qabid. He hadn’t thought much of the plump doddering middle-aged man then, other than that he had a kind face and an even kinder smile. It was only a year later that Kartik had truly formed a bond with him. 

In that year his mother the Queen Lekisha had died, and his father the King Jagesh gone into a downward spiral that often ended in a drunken stupor or a night of debauchery. 

The kingdom rotted under his rule. 

In one of these many drunken stupors, Kartik had made the mistake of entering his father’s chambers to show him a rose he had found, growing in the gardens despite it being winter. 

He had missed his father, the father who would talk philosophy with him as if he were an adult, the father who would gently sit him on his lap and read stories out loud while his mother looked on with a warm smile. 

He had thought his father would understand the significance of the rose. It had been his mother’s favourite flower. He thought a man as wise as his father would know what he meant. _We will survive this._

But Jagesh had not understood. Or maybe he had and that was why he had gotten so angry. The King did not want to claw himself out of the grave he was so desperately digging himself in. 

In a spurt of violence that would only become more frequent as the years went by, his father had taken the rose and crushed it between his fingers, not caring about the thorns that pierced his palms creating small rivers of blood that ran down his closed fist. Then he had beaten Kartik.

Kartik did not know how, but bloodied and bruised he had ended up in the palace stables. It was well past midnight when Qabid, who had a passion for horses, had found him. “Little prince,” he had asked. “Who did this to you?” Kartik hadn’t answered, the beating still fresh on his body, he did not want to know what his father would do if he found out that Kartik had told a physician what had happened. 

Qabid had helped Kartik out of the stables and taken him to his own home where he had fed him a simple meal of black bread, chicken and warm milk and had tended to his wounds. In that night Kartik had lost a father in Jagesh, but gained another in Qabid. As the years went by body had become a canvas for the brutality inflicted by his father and later the Battle of the Broken Will. And Qabid was always there with his medicine bag, a frown and a scolding.

“There we are done,” came Qabid’s voice. “If you perhaps ease training for a few days it might not become such a big problem later in life.”

Kartik rose from the bed and sat up.

“I can’t ease training,” he said solemnly. “Not now.”

“So it is war then?” Qabid did not wait for an answer. “How much opium did you take last night?”

Kartik, bowed his head in guilty submission, it was all the answer that Qabid needed. There had been a time in Kartik’s life when he could not go through the day without a strong dose of the drug. Kingship had turned him into a man filled with opium and plagued by demons, and he had been ashamed of it. He still was. 

Akhtar did not need a king like that, especially not now with the prospect of war on the horizon.

“I’m sorry,” said Kartik. “The memories do not leave easily. Especially not now.”

“You should have told me earlier that you were going to take the opium.”

“Earlier?” Kartik questioned.

“I developed a sleeping draught,” said Qabid. “It’s far less addictive, I would have administered it earlier, if I had known you still suffered.”

“Thank you,” said Kartik.

There was a knock on the door of his chambers. 

“Come in,” said Kartik, quickly sitting up and drawing a robe around his bare body.

The door opened to reveal Devika carrying an intricate cedar box. She wore a cheerful shade of sunset orange today, a stark contrast to her mood.

“The smiths worked on it day and night on this,” she said. “I thought you might like to see it.”

“It’s the first time we have the Bloody Necklace made in three hundred years,” said Kartik. “I wouldn’t miss seeing it for the world.”

The Bloody Necklace was the traditional declaration of war from Akhtar to be sent to the opposing kingdom. It was a necklace of black iron with blood-red rubies set into it, fashioned to look like a large chain. It said _I send this gift of blood-rubies as a promise of blood crystallised shaped like the chains I will bind you with._

Three hundred years of war. Ten years of peace. Here he was putting in his country in turmoil. What could he do? Aman Tripathi had forced his hand and he wasn’t going to let the killing of his people go unpunished.

Karthik wondered how Mahan declared war. Did they have a traditional way of doing so? Once again he cursed Jahan in his head. _Damn you_ he said to the dead king _damn you for putting us in this ignorance._

Kartik reached out and touched the rubies. The necklace was beautiful, in a macabre sort of way. _A promise of blood crystalised_. More fuel for the demons that lived in his head, he thought cynically. Thinking of the countless cruelties between both nations and the inevitable war to come Karthik turned to Devika.

“We will send no emissaries,” he said with finality. 

“How will we deliver it?” she asked.

“Eagle or something,” he said.

Devika gave him a pointed look. Kartik forced himself to think finally he came up with a solution.

“Send a man and a horse. The horse shall bear colourings of our nation, with the silver lion seal. Much has been lost between our nations but surely they will recognise our sigils. Have the man leave the horse outside the city gates of Mahan’s Capital.” he said. “I want no more meaningless bloodshed.”

\----------

[Also please check out this amazing Royalty Kartik by @_.serendipity.63_ on insta](https://www.instagram.com/p/B-e8EzAFJkX/?igshid=1l3kgmmzi1c5d)


	6. The Girl from Kashatr

Every rose has its thorn

And every thorn its rose

Eyes and hearts become reckless

Who are the lovers, and who the foes?

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

  
  


Kusum had changed out of the bright yellow silk garments, gifted by the Queen Mother Sunaina, and clothed herself in black. She placed a shawl over her and then used it to obscure her face. It was funny how people saw what they liked to see. In a mere span of seconds, she could turn from Kusum, the tragically orphaned charming noblewoman to a nobody, a shadow. 

She went over to the balcony and with one deft motion, she leaped, landing securely on the grass. Checking the perimeters she made her way to the palace gardens, an intricate maze of flowers and hedges. Rakesh would be waiting for her there. 

She wasn’t a stranger to nightly escapades, but today her nerves were more on edge than usual. She wanted to tell herself that it was because her plan had gone wrong. Today was the day when she was supposed to have charmed both Sunaina and Aman, charmed them so brilliantly that they would have no choice but to make her Queen. But Aman had left the banquet early and Sunaina’s demeanor had an edge of impatience that Kusum only barely managed to temper.

Yes, all that had been terrible, but the way Rajini had snapped at her hurt more than Kusum was willing to admit. She could not get out of her head the image of Rajini’s lips curling into a snarl, her eyes narrowing, nose flaring as she snapped. _She hates me now, surely_ Kusum thought not knowing why she cared so much. 

She had arrived in the garden, in the place where she and Rakesh had agreed to meet. But Rakesh was nowhere in sight. _Late as usual_ , she thought sitting herself down on the bench and wrapped the shawl around her more tightly. It was a cold night. She wished she had worn something warmer. 

Suddenly she felt an arm snake around her pulling her back over the bench, while another hand clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming. She toppled over backward and landed on a body. She drew a dagger from her waist twisted out of her captors hold and turned the dagger pointed at their neck.

She was met with the familiar face of Rakesh and his laughter.

“Surprise!” he said exasperated, his soft brown eyes looking up at her appraisingly.

“Idiot!” she swore at him. “I could have screamed and we would have been discovered and-”

“You worry too much,” he said grinning, his fingers brushing a stray strand away. “We’re going to be fine, how did you manage today?”

“Not well,” she admitted.

Rakesh stood up abruptly, his laughing features turning so fierce that it frightened Kusum. 

“You know we need to get this done quickly,” he said, his voice low, he held her wrist painfully, she was sure it was going to bruise. “If this plan goes wrong everything is at stake. You need to marry him. We _need_ those crown jewels. You know I’m a wanted man in this place, you know they will find out about you soon enough. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

Kusum nodded “Yes I know. I...he was summoned away by the commander-in-chief and vizier before I could do or say anything. Apparently _something important._ ”

She found herself echoing Rajini’s words and it made her feel a certain way. 

Rakesh studied her in a way that made her feel vulnerable, as if he had scoured through her and found something that she couldn’t admit. Not even to herself. “You’re lying to me aren’t you?” he asked her.

“Why would I do that?” she asked him fiercely. “You know I love you, I would never lie to you. Not at all.”

He visibly relaxed at that.

“You need to leave,” she said. “The guards will patrolling here soon, if we get caught-”

“Just give me one last kiss,” he said, grabbing at her, in a way that meant he wanted more than a kiss. 

She pushed him away “You’re the one who’s always talking about how important this plan is. If it's really that important you should leave now.”

She might have said this more harshly than she had intended. Rakesh pushed her off, got up and left. Without even saying goodbye. Kusum wanted nothing more than to call him back and give him everything. But that was against reason.

She got up and sat herself on the bench again and wrapped the shawl more tightly around her. She did not want to move. She did not want to do anything. She did not want to play the noblewoman and she was afraid of what she would find if she looked back at who she was. A simple daughter of a farmer. A jewel thief. To be a nothing, to be without complications, to be nobody must be sweet.

“Kusum?” came a voice. Before Kusum could recognise it she felt a subconscious pull towards the voice. When she did recognise it she relaxed.

“Rajini.” she answered with a grim smile turning towards the other woman.

“What are you doing out here?” asked Rajini. She was still dressed in her black finery and armour, with a sword strapped to her waist. She must not have slept.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kusum lied. And she hated how easily the lie came out of her mouth. 

Rajini sat herself beside her on the other edge of the bench. “Neither could I,” then she paused. “I’m sorry that I snapped at you earlier.”

Kusum, despite herself, felt something heavy lifting from her chest. A heaviness that she hadn’t realised had settled there until she felt a lightness taking its place. 

“That’s okay,” she said, unable to keep herself from smiling. “You seemed stressed, I should not have pried.”

“No,” said Rajini. “You have every right to be curious.”  
  


“So something is wrong?”  
  


Rajini turned to look at her with a rare warmth and compassion and Kusum could not help but compare it to Rakesh’s raking hungry gaze. She had been comparing the two of them alot lately. 

“I suppose I should tell you,” said Rajini. “You’re going to find out soon enough. We are to declare war on Akhtar. They attacked a village in Balkar, Kashatr I think it was. You weren’t here when Aman’s father died, but on that day he had declared that he would not stop until he killed the Akhtari king. We all thought he would grow out of it, but he didn’t. And this is the perfect opportunity for him to kill him.”

The mention of Kashatr took Kusum back to her childhood. She had grown up there. She remembered the great golden fields, the small cottage and the village elder who had taught her to read in the dirt. She also remembered the blood. The corpses piled up, rotting, carrion for birds. Her little brother's burnt toy and his tiny body severed in half.

The Battle of the Broken Will, the killing of her family, had forced her on to the trajectory she was on now. She remembered hearing that Shankar had died, she had been fifteen then. She remembered feeling disappointed that she had not killed him herself.

This plan, marrying the king, cuckolding him, stealing the crown jewels and running off with Rakesh, was more than ensuring Rakesh wouldn’t be hanged for murder (which he did not commit). It was in a way her own kind of revenge. She will bring dishonour to the family that had destroyed her life. 

In a way Kusum understood Aman’s desire for vengeance. It burned in her too. She almost felt sorry for what she was going to do to him. She felt even sorrier for abusing Rajini’s trust. It was becoming harder to remain focused on her goal, to keep her loyalty to herself intact. 

Even so she found her body betraying her as she placed her hand on Rajini’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. 

“I have the utmost trust in you,” she told her. “I know that you will do your best in protecting us.” Kusum looked at Rajini’s bad eye. “I just wish you didn’t have to fight anymore. You’ve already sacrificed so much.”

Rajini placed her own hand on top of Kusum’s and squeezed it. “People like you make me remember there are things worth fighting for.”

Later when Kusum lay in bed, she couldn’t help but feel Rajini’s touch still on her fingers. She knew it was rare for Rajini, perpetually loud, brash, unapologetic and increasingly snide with her remarks, to show this sweet and vulnerable side of her. Kusum couldn’t help but to smile, knowing she had the privilege to witness this. She couldn’t help hearing those words over and over again. _People like you make me remember there are things worth fighting for_.

  
 _By god_ she wondered _where are my loyalties?_

\----

This chapter is purely Sunflower (Rajini x Kusum ship name for those who don't know). My song for their relationship is [Laila Laila](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k70P9keuKAo) for some reason. Why I am using an Andhadhun song for a relationship that is from SMZS I have no idea. But go ahead and give it a listen.


	7. Of Poetry and War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I will be adding 'extracts' from The Glass Mosaic at the beginning of every chapter. I've added them to previous chapters too. So go ahead and check them out.

_Janai so_ , he whispered

To soft burning skin in the dark

The answer came in starlight and smiles

 _Humchal parashe,_ as soft as a lark

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

  
  


The horse was a tall chestnut, lithe and built like a racer. Aman couldn’t help but admire its proud visage. He also felt a sense of annoyance. This was one of the kingdom’s finest horses and he was giving it away, practically gifting it to the Akhtari King. It was draped in blue and gold finery, on its back a cedar box. In it the Cold Dagger. It was no longer a horse in the eyes of Aman, King of Mahan. It was the herald of war. 

He and all the nobles stood by the city gates, the people city behind them. Royal regalia and the sound of drums could not mask the silence of the crowd. They were all weary of war. Aman could sense it. Yet there was also a grimness in their silence, a steely determination which told Aman that they would follow him to war despite their weariness. The Akhtari king had killed their own and that could not be forgiven. 

The man who was chosen to deliver the horse was named Pahal. He was calm when he received Aman’s kingly blessing without much pomp. Efficient and prompt. Aman knew he would get the job done. 

“ _Janhai so_ ,” he said to the messenger.

The effects of the words were palpable. He could practically taste it, as the crowd gathered shifted behind him. The man nodded grimly, understanding the gravity of the situation and leapt atop the horse before making his way out of the gates as bystanders threw petals at him. A blessing.

“ _Janhai so_?” asked Kaali, who stood beside him. “You know those words-”

“I know what they mean,” said Aman, cutting him off.

It was archaic Mahanite. It meant more than simply goodbye. It meant _my soul is yours_. It was a phrase used in old poetry when the lovers would part. For a king to say that their soul would be someone's was something significant, blessing and a great responsibility. And this was something significant for Aman. He had taken vengeance as his lover and here vengeance was before him in the shape of a man and a horse bearing a jeweled dagger. His soul was irrevocably entwined with this, he was only making it official with his words. He wondered whether Aayush ever said those words to Taharin.

“So this is it then?” asked Kaali.

“Do you disagree?” Aman gave him an ironic smile. “You are no longer regent. You will have to kill me if you want to stop it.”

Kaali’s expression was one of momentary horror before it turned into determination. “I swore I would follow your father. Now I follow you till my last breath.”

Kaali’s loyalty could not be questioned. When Aman’s father had been killed, with the help of Rajini, Kaali had protected his body from further desecration. He had brought the whole army and Shankar home. Later he had stepped up when Chaman had refused to take on the regency and had retired to the countryside. Kaali was a poor substitute for a father, but he was all Aman had.

“I know,” said Aman watching his dream ride out until it was naught but a speck on the horizon. “I will hold you to it.”

These people will follow him to death and not for the first time Aman was doubtful.

~~~

  
  


How does one send a declaration? Kartik had wondered. With pomp and regalia and fanfare? Or with quiet secrecy? Kartik’s advisors chose the former. And why not? It was nice to have some sort of celebration before everything went to hell. 

Except it did not feel much like a celebration. 

The horse they had chosen was white, draped in red and silver, it looked like a wound. On its back a cedar box with the Bloody necklace inside. No one wanted war. War had been their way of life for three centuries. These ten years of peace had shown them what peace could look like. What hope and love goodness could look like. They had seen it. They wanted to cling to it. They did not want to return to the grey bloody monotony of war. 

But they had to do this. They had convinced themselves that war would be the only way to preserve this new life. Kartik wondered how much of that was true. 

“You remember your instructions?” he asked the messenger quietly.

“Yes, your majesty, I am to leave the horse in front of the city gates.”

Karitk clapped his shoulder. “Good man. Make sure you return safely.”

“And the horse?”

“Let them keep it.”

The man got atop the horse, and the crowd gave him a cheer that held more fury than happiness.

“ _Humchal parashe_.” he said loud and clear enough for all to hear. 

Ancient Akhtari. It meant, _your soul will remain in my heart._ It was a customary goodbye between lovers, having its origins in ancient romances. It was also the blessing of kings. One day, Kartik promised himself he would rewrite the story of Aayush and Taharin. He would write them an epic and put those exact words in them. Their love deserved that much. That is if he survived this war.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I KNOW THIS WAS FAIRLY SHORT, A FILLER AND PROBABLY NOT WORTH THE WAIT BUT... BEAR WITH ME PLEASE THINGS WILL ONLY GET INTERESTING FROM HERE. ESPECIALLY THE NEXT CHAPTER :)


	8. Cotton and Silk

They knew not, these kings of kings

That in the water glazed by moonlight

In the heavens where the gods reside

They were made as mirrors, flight or fight

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

  
  


Chaman Tripathi had left court life. But it seemed court life had no desire to leave him. For one there were the sleepless nights where the ghost of his brother, the now-dead king, would visit him. Not literally, but in thoughts and memories. Sometimes Chaman wondered whether he did the right thing in rejecting the regency. He wondered whether it was wrong of him to have abandoned Aman, his children, Keshav and Rajini and his wife Champa to the court. Whenever such thoughts would enter his head he would have to remind himself time and time again that this was wrong.

Time had a strange way of erasing crucial information from one's memory.

Aman had _forced_ him to reject the regency when Chaman decided he did not want any part in his so-called vengeance. Rajini and Keshav had been old enough by then to make their own decisions and they had decided to stay and serve their cousin their King. And Champa...well he hadn’t talked to her in years. 

The only letters he received now were from Rajini and Keshav. Occasionally Sunaina would also write. One such letter came to him today as he ate a breakfast of fried unleavened bread, butter, pickled eggs and freshly churned yogurt. The housekeeper, Anjali, an old woman of seventy came and placed the letter on his table.

“From Keshav.” she informed him.

Chaman’s felt a smile grace his face as a dagger of sadness graced his heart. Usually, he was able to stave off the loneliness of his pseudo-exile, by keeping himself busy running the country estate, occasionally helping the common folk with their labour. Moments like these made him realise how much he craved family, how much he wanted this dreaded empty country manse to be filled with laughter and love. 

He eagerly opened the letter it read:

_Beloved Father,_

_Our cousin, your nephew, Aman, the King, has been officially coronated. It would please you to know that Rajini has been appointed as Commander-In-Chief of the royal army while I have been appointed as vizier. I would like to thank you in words, on behalf of myself and Rajini, for helping us excel. Though we have not seen much of each other in the past ten years, you have been our constant supporter and inspiration for most of our lives._

_Rajini would have written to you too, but her duties are more demanding than mine. You have probably heard whispers of this already. We are to go to war. You will most likely see the herald of war, a man on a chestnut horse wearing blue and gold carrying a cedar box, pass by since your estate is on the road that leads to Akhtar._

_The Akhtari king has attacked Balkar and has laid slaughter to the village of Kashatr. Aman will not let this go unpunished. Perhaps he is right. We should not let the killing of our own go unpunished. However, I am worried. You of all people know how he feels about Kartik Singh. You will know he won’t stop until he has killed him._

_I sometimes wonder whether it was right for Aman to have given you that ultimatum, to have you practically banished. You would have gently guided him away from this madness. Perhaps that is why he banished you. I only wish you were here Father. Mother does not say it, but she misses you terribly. I know it. We all do._

_Rajini and I had looked forward to meeting you this winter. However, I fear the winter will bring us more woes than simply bitter winds and snow. Even so I hope we meet soon._

_Your Loving Son_

_Keshav_

_PS. Rajini told me to tell you that the last suitor you suggested was an ugly toad and she was ready to hang him by his toes while she ripped his guts out bit by bit every day then fed him alive to the dogs._

Chaman laughed momentarily at the postscript. It was a game he and Rajini played over their letters to each other. He would suggest the ugliest suitor and she would come up with the most creative ways to kill them. It was not the most ethical game to play by letter, but it amused them both and that was what mattered.

Then the true meaning of the letter sank in. _War?_ He thought. He knew it would come to this. But not so soon. He found he had no appetite. 

It was then that he heard a clatter of hooves outside. He got up and looked out the window, to see a man on a chestnut horse, cloaked in blue and gold finery, bearing the sigil of a great golden eagle. He was able to study it for about fifteen seconds before the man galloped past.

_The Herald of War._ He thought. He turned away from the window. He wasn’t at court anymore. There was nothing he could do to stop this. The feeling of unease nagged at him.

Three days later, when he had almost forgotten the unease, he heard another clatter of hooves. He frowned. It took five days to reach the capital city of Akhtar from his estate and five days to come back. The herald should not be back by now. He turned, went to the front window again and looked out.

The horse was white, bearing the sigil of a silver lion proudly emblazoned on the red cloth. It was from Akhtar. 

Chaman did not know what it symbolised. He found he did not want to know. The feeling of unease returned, this time a thousand-fold.

~~~

Sometimes when Aman closed his eyes he would imagine the man and his horse and with them the Cold Dagger. 

He would imagine them racing through the countryside over borders and rivers and towns and cities. It would take them a week to get from Chandan, the capital of Mahan, to Khorshid, capital of Akhtar. Which also meant it would take another week for Akhtar’s response to come through. Two weeks before Aman received word. He had learned that much from strenuously studying the landscape of both countries. 

So it came as a surprise when only a week after the herald of war had left, he was practically kicked awake by Rajini in the early hours of the morning. 

“Get up quickly, there is word from Akhtar.”

Aman blinked up at her, he saw Keshav standing rigidly behind her. _Word from Akhtar, so soon?_

He leaped up out of bed and put a robe around him as his cousins led him to the throne room. Aman did not see the noblemen gathered, though he knew they were all there waiting, anticipating, wondering what this all meant. 

What he did see was the magnificent white horse held by Kaali, clothed in red and silver, with a cedar box on its back. Aman wanted to laugh. He felt less miserable about the loss of the chestnut. This horse was equally magnificent.

It seemed the Akhtari king and he had very similar ideas. When the amusement wore off doubts and questions took its place. The timing most of all nagged him. It should have taken at least two weeks for Akhtar to respond. There was also the question of why the Akhtari king felt the need to send him this...declaration when he had already made his intentions clear by attacking Kashatr? 

“Who brought this here?” he asked Kaali who was holding the horses reins..

“We are not sure the guards found it outside the city gates.”

Aman went up to the horse and outstretched his hands towards its nose. Curiously the horse sniffed at it. Aman found himself strangely at ease at the feel of the horse’s hot breath and touch of its velvety nose at his fingertips. He reached up and stroked it behind its ears. 

“The colours and the emblem suggest it is from Akhtar,” continued Rajini. “However it could be a hoax.”

“It’s not a hoax,” said Aman firmly.

“It’s not?” Kaali questioned.

Aman turned to Keshav. “You’re clever. Come here and tell me, what the cloth is made from.”

Keshav came forward and felt the red-dyed cloth that draped the horses back. 

“Silk,” Keshav said.

“What makes silk? Silkworms right? Pray tell me where do silkworms come from?”

“Akhtar,” Keshav replied. “Though, it could be old silk, from before the Three Hundred Year war, when we still traded with them.”

“Does the silk feel old to you?” he asked.

“No,” Keshav answered. “In fact it looks freshly made. I’ve never seen silk so bright before. So it must be a message from Akhtar, sent about a week ago.”

Once again the timing of this nagged him. This would have been sent around the same time Aman had sent his declaration. Aman looked at the box on the horse's back.

“What is in it?” Aman turned to Rajini.

“We have not opened it yet, we feared-”  
  


Sighing with frustration Aman went up to the horse and plucked the cedar box from its back.

“Aman,” came Rajini’s voice. “Let me-”

“I’m sure if it were a box of vipers meant to poison me I would have heard their hissing by now,” he replied calmly. He wondered if she understood the meaning behind his biting remark. He was not going to let her risk her life for him.

He opened the box without ceremony. When he saw what was inside his heart practically stopped. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks in a strange wave of both embarrassment and confusion. He heard Rajini’s muffled laughter behind him, while there was naught but stunned silence from Keshav and Kaali. 

The crowd of noblemen and advisors gathered, started whispering amongst themselves, wondering what could possibly be in that box to elicit such a response. Aman supposed he could not hide it for long, he took out the black iron necklace studded with blood-red rubies and raised it high. He thought it would quell their curiosity, but it only served to heighten it.

“You’re not going to accept, are you?” came the voice of Sunaina.

Aman turned in her direction. He wasn’t even aware that she was in the room until she had spoken. It looked like she too had been dragged from her bed. He understood the fury in her question, she had wanted Aman to marry Kusum, to produce an heir whose right to the throne would not be questioned. And this...well this screwed all her plans.

Aman wasn’t sure if Kartik knew, but here in Mahan, giving someone a necklace of rubies constituted a proposal for marriage. Much had been lost between their countries perhaps he did not know this. 

Aman thought about the timing, he thought about the fact that he had sent a _necklace_ , just a necklace, with no message or messenger. The necklace was specifically made of rubies. Perhaps Kartik Singh _did_ know. Aman’s embarrassment and confusion turned into indignation.

“He killed my father,” Aman said to his mother. “He killed my people, and now he expects me to…”

Aman recoiled at the thought of marrying him. Bedding him. Let him touch him. 

But no. This made no sense, why attack Balkar, incite war and then propose marriage? If this was supposed to be an insult it was a confusing one. There was something wrong here. 

“None of this makes sense,” said Aman. _Unless_ ...he thought _unless Akhtar thinks that_ we _attacked Kashatr. Which means there is someone here in Mahan or in Akhtar who wanted to bring the two countries to war for their own gain. That would make sense if…_

“Keshav do you think that sending someone a ruby necklace is Akhtari custom for a declaration of war?”

“I’m not sure, all the records have been destroyed but I can try looking for more information. It is possible,” replied Keshav. “Is it still war then?” 

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. But even so it would be dangerous to declare this thought out loud. Whoever did this was far more experienced than Aman and far more patient. That also made them far more dangerous. They will most likely kill him if they had any idea that Aman knew what was going on.

Besides, Aman did not care if this war benefited some third rate courtier with overleaping ambition. He knew it _should_ scare him to know there was a third mysterious player in a game where he had once believed only he and Kartik were the players. But it didn’t. As long as he killed Kartik in the end it did not matter. 

“We go on,” said Aman. “We should go on as if this never happened.”

“Of course” said Kaali, a grimness had fallen over him. “We speak of this to no one,”

_It is too late,_ thought Aman, looking at the courtiers gathered _they are already talking._

~~~

Kartik wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when they led a beautiful chestnut mare draped in the colours of Mahan into the throne room. He was amused to find King Aman’s method of deliverance mirrored his own. He was more confused than amused though. Mahan did not need to declare war, they had made their intentions clear when they attacked Kashatr and this definitely was not a response to his declaration. The timing suggested that Aman of Mahan had sent this, whatever _this_ was, the same day Kartik had sent his declaration.

Kartik got off his throne and approached the horse. Unable to restrain himself he ran his hand firmly across the creatures neck. It was a beautiful thing. 

“Are we sure it’s genuine?” he asked Devika who stood beside him.

“The cloth is of fine cotton,” she said. “All the cotton farms are in Mahan.”

Kartik nodded, he went on stroking the horse.

“There’s a box,” said Devika. “It’s cedar.”

“I can see that,” said Kartik.

“Should I-”

“No,” said Kartik firmly.

He could not lose her. She had been his best friend since childhood. His constant, his companion, his shadow. Being King, being responsible for a nation didn’t mean she was allowed to sacrifice her life for him.

Her dark eyes followed his movements inquisitively. He could feel the eyes of the rest of the advisors and courtiers following him too, boring into him as he took the box from the horses back. He unlatched the clasp, the dull click resonated across the silence of the throne room. 

When he saw what was inside, he frowned. 

“What is it?” came the voice of Parvaz.

Kartik raised the sapphire jewelled dagger above his head for all to see, he was met by stunned silence littered with audible gasps of shock. Kartik decided to take advantage of moment.

“It seems the Mahanite king is in love with me.” said Kartik, laughing, knowing it was probably far from the truth. 

There were a few chuckles but most people seemed unamused. A pity. Kartik found the situation hilarious. And baffling. Baffling most of all. Did Aman Tripathi not know that jewelled daggers, specifically sapphire jewelled daggers, were customarily used in marriage proposals in Akhtar?

Kartik of all people knew how much was lost between the two nations. So it may be that this gift had a different meaning entirely. But to use _sapphires_ . _Specifically_ those treacherous blue gems. It made no sense to Kartik.

“What do you make of this?” he said, turning to his advisors holding the dagger towards them.

“Why would he propose marriage after he attacks Kashatr?” mused Devika. “It makes no sense. The timing…”

She trailed off and this time Parvaz spoke up.

“Your majesty, may I suggest something?” Parvaz looked at the crowd of nobles. “In private if you may”

Kartik regarded Parvaz. The other man was much older than him, fifteen years older than him to be exact, quieter as well. He was taller than Kartik, skinnier too, with thick spectacles that finished off the scholarly look he sported. Kartik remembered the first time he met Parvaz. 

Parvaz had come to the court as an assistant librarian. Kartik had been eight years old then, Parvaz twenty-three. Kartik usually thought the librarians boring, and only fit for playing pranks on, but there was something about Parvaz that struck Kartik as different. Perhaps it was the gleam in his grey eyes that spoke of hidden genius or his warm smile or perhaps it was the fact that Parvaz would actually assist Kartik with his pranks. Whatever it was Kartik respected him. And that respect extended to this day.

_My voice of reason,_ Kartik thought affectionately _if anyone knows what to do it would be him_. 

Kartik dismissed the courtiers. The only people left in the room were him, Devika and Parvaz.

“Speak up,” Kartik demanded. “What do you suggest?”  
  


“I think it would be best for us to try and make peace with Mahan.”

“They attacked Kashatr,” argued Devika. 

Kartik raised his hand “Let Parvaz speak.”

“As you have said, none of this makes sense,” continued Parvaz. “The timing of the gift itself as well as the attack. Though I have no evidence I believe that this attack may have been orchestrated by a third party. And this gift is probably not a proposal of marriage, but rather a declaration of war.”

“Meaning that Mahan thinks _we_ have attacked Kashatr,” said Devika, realisation coming over her.

“Exactly,” Parvaz affirmed. “This third party, whoever they are, wants the two nations to go to war. For what reason, I do not know. But it is clear that whoever they are, they are patient, clever and know how to play this game. This also means they are dangerous, which is why I asked for a private audience. They could have been in this very room.”

“What do we do about it?” asked Kartik.

“We should meet with Mahan,” said Parvaz resolutely. “Explain ourselves. Form an alliance with them, find the culprit and broker peace between the two nations.”

“We’ve been at war for three hundred years,” said Devika. “How will we manage alliances and peace with a country that hates us?”

Parvaz gestured towards the sapphire jewelled dagger in Kartik’s hand. “I have an idea.”


	9. The Will of the People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to get an update despite being busy with Vaisakhi. It's unedited but I hope you enjoy the new development in the story.

What is vengeance? What is blood?

What is hate? And what is pride?

What is three hundred years of war

When measured against the people’s cries?

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Parvaz did not tell them what his idea was. 

He said they needed to wait at least a week since a lot of it rested on the reaction of the people to the news of the declaration from Mahan. This was something Kartik looked forward to gauging. 

About a year before his father died, as a way of escaping the drudgery of the palace, Kartik and Devika would disguise themselves as commoners and enjoy walking about the streets Khorshid, the Capital. From the clamour of the crowds, the smells of the dingy corners, the flavors of the streets, from the mouths of boys, girls, babes, women, men and the old Kartik would hear how his country fared. 

This time it was no different. For a whole two weeks, he and Devika haunted the inns and talked to travelers, exchanging information and gauging the feelings of the people from all over Akhtar from every walk of life.

It struck Kartik as funny, how the people had perceived and moulded Mahan’s declaration to fit their own hopes and dreams for the nation. From almost every single person came the same response.  _ We hear the kings are contemplating marriage. That is good. We are tired of war. Our forefathers have been slaughtered for three hundred years. If this marriage will stop it we welcome it with open arms. _

Devika and Kartik reported as much to Parvaaz, who had been scouring the storeroom of the library’s storeroom for more information on Mahan. Hearing their report Parvaaz smiled.

“Excellent...” he muttered, then louder he repeated “Excellent! This is excellent!”

“What is excellent?” asked Kartik, though he thought he knew the general direction of the plan he wasn’t entirely sure of the whole mechanics of it, or even why the reaction of the people was so important. 

“Sit,” offered Parvaz gesturing to the chairs at the edges of the library table. Both Devika and Kartik sat. 

“So what is this great plan you have locked away in your head?” asked Devika.

Parvaz sat opposite them, his eyes twinkled with mirth.

“The people want you to marry this king do they not?” he asked Kartik.

“Yes but-”

“Then do it.”

Parvaz’s suggestion was met with complete silence from Devika and a series of unconnected monosyllables from Kartik. Kartik composed himself and started to talk again.

“I killed his father,” he said. “Do you think he will  _ want _ to marry me? You’ve been reading too many romance novels. Parvaz, you are supposed to be my voice of reason.”

“I have  _ not _ been reading romance novels,” said Parvaz indignantly. “But if you think about it, a marriage between the two of you would be the best way to attain an alliance between the two countries. It would be secure, combining the resources of both nations to make it into one powerful one. It would end the war, permanently, begin a new era, of course there will be the problem of heirs and bloodline-”

“We can deal with that later,” said Kartik, feeling the colour rise to his cheeks.

“Yes of course,” said Parvaz. “But marriage would provide a good cover for finding out who this culprit is. You show a united front with Mahan. You form an unbreakable bond. And what is more unbreakable than a marriage? You marry Aman, it will baffle our enemies. They will falter, blunder and they will be found out. Most of all it is what the people want.”

“How do we know  _ the chicken king of Mahan _ will agree to this?” said Devika. 

“Careful Devika,” said Kartik jokingly. “This is my future husband we are talking about he should be addressed accordingly-”

“I will call him what I want, you dog.” came Devika’s biting remark.

“We won’t know if he will agree,” came Parvaz’s voice, cutting down the rising argument between the two. “But we can try, can we not? If not a marriage then an alliance or some sort of agreement will also suffice. I am only saying we should  _ aim _ to negotiate for a marriage, it is most ideal.”

“Before we get into that, we'll need to contact them,” said Kartik. “We will need to meet somehow. But...how can we hold a peaceful meeting considering our history and..”

“Balkar,” said Devika. “The temple to Okhine, god of dreams and death, it is sacred ground spilling blood is forbidden there.”   
  
“Devika you are a genius!” exclaimed Kartik pulling her into a hug. “We send a letter then? Under a banner of peace?”

Parvaz looked at Kartik quizzically “How good is your Mahanite?”

~~~

Had Aman’s father been here he would have told him no to wait so long.  _ Three weeks? _ He could practically hear Shankar whisper.  _ You’re giving them too much time. Attack now, attack fast, attack hard.  _ Whenever the phantom, the invisible hallucination of his father was not there to torment him, Kaali took his place.

“This is what you wanted!” he would say. “This is your chance to kill the Akhtari bastard.”

But Aman waited. His father played his games, hard and fast and he had lost. Aman will not make the same mistakes. Besides, there was something else that prevented him from truly going to war.

News of Akhtar’s gift had reached the common folk and it seemed Aman had underestimated their weariness of war and overrated their loyalty to the throne. From reports, he learned that the common folk actually  _ wanted _ him to marry the Akhtari king. 

Overall it had become harder to kill Kartik. He could not let the will of his people go unheard in fear of angering them, turning them against him. If he did not have the backing of the people then the kingship was a hollow one. 

That was one of the reasons why when he heard the news of a messenger on horseback, with an armed escort, arriving under the banner of peace, Aman decided it was probably in bad taste to kill the messenger. He decided, perhaps, maybe he will hear Akhtar out. The other reason was there was a chance that Akhtar too had figured out that there was a third party at play and there might be beneficial in this.

Aman watched from the battlement as an armed escort led by a woman holding aloft a white banner of peace alongside the Akhtari flag entered the courtyard. They clothed in the richest red with great silver lions emblazoned on their chests, glimmering in the pale light of the early morning sun. Their swords glinted a pretty threat. Aman regarded the display of pomp with incredulity. He thought it rather pretentious and brazen.

By the time they were ready to be received Aman had arranged himself with calculated grace and ease on the throne. The messenger, the woman who had led the escort entered with a white cloth in her right hand, the banner of peace, and in her left a letter. She had singularly striking profile with her red and silver clothing, her dark hair flowing behind. Her gaze, the very image fierceness. Her every movement exuded confidence. Her full lips set and determined as she walked to the throne with such purpose and authority that it came as a surprise to Aman when she actually bowed in front of him, acknowledging Aman as a king.

“Who are you?” Rajini demanded, she stood to his right along with Keshav and Kaali, while the rest of the other advisors were regulated to seats below the throne room

“My name is Devika,” she said, in heavily accented Mahanite. “I come from Akhtar I-”

“You are king’s advisor,” stated Aman. He knew that much. “Why would the king send his most trusted advisor to the clutches of enemy territory? He’s a fool or perhaps he hates you.”

“Neither of those things your majesty,” she replied succinctly. “He did not want to send me.”

“And you convinced him to send you?” questioned Aman. 

“Yes,” she said. “With an armed escort as you can see, The contents of this letter could not be trusted with anyone else. Besides, I do not think you will harm me.”

“You put too much faith in me Devika,” said Aman. “I could have your armed escort killed and you imprisoned.”

“But you will not,” said Devika.

“And why not?”

Devika proffered the letter “I was instructed to give this letter to you and you alone.”

Rajini turned to Aman and raised her eyebrows. They had discussed it: he, Keshav, Rajini and Kaali, they had discussed the timing of Akhtar’s gift and its nature. They all agreed that there was a third party at play, they all needed to tread carefully.

Where Aman was adamant on war, Keshav and Rajini sued for peace with Akhtar. Kaali remained neutral on this matter but seemed to encourage war, out of respect for Shankar, all which had annoyed Aman to no end.

“Your last gift was rather curious,” said Aman, giving Devika a smile, he gestured for Keshav to bring him the letter, which he did promptly. Aman took his time, fingering the silver seal and the folded edges. “Did you not know that a gift of a ruby necklace means a proposal of marriage?”

At that there was a glimmer in Devika’s eyes, she gave him a devilish smile.

“This time he sends you love poetry.” her smile became wider. “Our king is fond of poetry, though, I dare say his descriptions can be rather... _ vivid _ . It is not for the ears of all I am afraid.” she ended with a pointed look at the letter. 

Aman understood her meaning. This matter required privacy and urgency. With a wave of his hand he dismissed his advisors. The only people who remained in the room were Kaali, Keshav, Rajini, Devika and himself. He proceeded to open the letter, breaking the silver wax lion seal with relish. In his mind it was metaphorical destruction of Kartik.

The first thing he noted was the bold, flowing intensity of the script. It was not how he imagined how Kartik Singh would write. He had not imagined his hand to be strong, flourishing or even legible. The Kartik in his head was a drunk ugly, fat despot, with apoplexy. But he read it anyway

_ Aman Tripathi, King of Mahan _

_ I write to you, king to king, with the knowledge of three hundred years of tragedy and loss between us and with the knowledge of a tragedy more recent that hangs as a shadow between us. I know you probably detest me for the death of your father and I understand. I shall not ask for your forgiveness. I will not insult you by attempting to atone for that terrible deed with words. _

_ However, for the sake of my people and for yours, I implore you to put this all aside, if only for a while. If you wish to kill me, do it, but only after I know my people will be safe.  _

_ I have reason to believe (and I am sure you do too) that a conspiracy, until now unknown to both of us, has coaxed our countries out of the ten year peace we have attained. This comes in the form of the attack on Kashatr, by men who wear the colours of neither Akhtar or Mahan. _

_ Whatever else I maybe I am not an oathbreaker and I have reason to believe that neither are you. I find it unlikely that either of us attacked Balkar. Thus it must be someone in power who wants war. War, as you know, will cost lives. As kings, I believe it is our solemn duty to protect our people, no matter our pride. As such I implore that we meet on the third day in the month of Karam, in Balkar, in the sacred Temple of Okhine, where no blood must be spilled. We must meet to survey the damages in the Kashatr, to talk of the fate of our nations and perhaps lead them to a new era.  _

_ I am tired of fighting. My people are too.  _

_ Kartik Singh, King of Akhtar _

_ PS. Your gift was rather curious. I hope we have time to discuss it, and the prospects it might hold.  _

Aman handed the letter to Rajini to read, no doubt Keshav and Kaali would read over her shoulder, he directed his attention to Devika. 

“I suppose you will want a reply,” he said dryly.

“Yes” came Devika’s equally dry response.

Aman leaned back on his throne and thought, giving Rajini, Keshav and Kaali time to read the letter. He tried to remain calm. 

He wanted nothing more than to dash Kartik’s hopes and wishes. He wanted to kill the armed escorts and imprison Devika and incite war properly with Kartik. To punish him for being so...brazen with his request. 

But the truth was, the letter had shaken Aman to the very core. The King of Akhtar was  _ begging  _ him to put aside their differences and neutralise a threat together. He sounded weary...compassionate even.  _ No  _ Aman reminded himself  _ this was the man who killed your father, he is a tyrant, he knows no compassion. _

But in his heart of hearts, in the place that was not yet consumed by revenge, the place he dared not touch, he knew he should accept this meeting, this chance of a temporary alliance. For one it will eliminate an enemy for him allowing him to focus on his goal. And for another...if he incited war now his people will never forgive him. Not when they hoped that he was going to marry the Akhtari King. 

It would be the wiser course then to at least meet with Kartik. Get a measure of the man he was about to kill. 

“Hand me a quill, ink and some parchment,” said Aman. “Oh and some wax and the royal seal.”

Keshav rushed forth to get to the items.

“Will you accept?” asked Rajini.

Aman did not answer her. It seemed his pride would not allow it. 

“Of course he will not,” said Kaali. “To form an alliance with the barbarian who killed our king is unthinkable.”

Aman turned away from Kaali, with a feeling akin to shame. Would he be dishonouring the memory of his father if he formed this alliance? How does the will and safety of one’s people balance against that of the phantom of one’s father and the stubborn pride associated with it? How much was truly needed until the scales were tipped? How much would shatter the scale entirely?

But no, he had to be resolved in this matter. The scale did not exist. He could fulfill the will of the people and quench his desire for vengeance in due time. He was only playing a wiser and slower game than most kings before him. He waited ten years, he could wait a little longer.

The parchment, quill, ink, wax and seal were brought before him. He motioned for Devika to come up and watch as he wrote.

_ Kartik Singh King of Akhtar _

_ I accept your terms. I shall see you then on the third day of the month Karam. My people are tired of fighting, but I am not. I have not even begun.  _

_ Aman Tripathi, King of Mahan _

Without ceremony, he folded the parchment and affixed the golden wax with its eagle seal upon it and handed the letter to Devika.

“Does that satisfy you?” he asked her.

“How do I know you will keep your word?”

“You don’t,” said Aman. “But your king trusts me and as should you. Will you be leaving now?”

“Kartik will worry if I do not come soon,” she told him.

She called him by his first name. That struck Aman as funny.  _ Perhaps they are lovers  _ he thought. He wouldn’t put it beneath Kartik to liaise with one of his advisors. She also said he would ‘worry’. That also struck Aman as funny. Kings do not usually worry about their advisors. Especially no tyrants.

“One thing before you leave,” he found the words coming out involuntarily, piqued by a curiosity that seemed to spring spontaneously. “What did he mean when he said he found our ‘gift’ curious?”

Devika gave him another one of her devilish smiles “Oh, did you not know that a gift of a sapphire jewelled dagger means a proposal of marriage?”

With that, she left the throne room.


	10. Broken Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can confirm Karman will meet in Ch 13.

Kill me here and now

While there is spirit left in me

You cannot kill a corpse my love

Tell me do you hear my plea?

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

  
  


Kartik’s apprehension at Devika’s fate had taken a toll on the condition of his shoulder. For a whole day, he was unable to move his upper body properly so Qabid ordered a three-day bed rest, which Kartik found he was unable to disobey. The fortnight passed, during that time he imagined his body was made of a million nerves, all taught and frayed ready to snap if given the inclination. 

He knew Devika was perfectly capable of looking after herself. That did not stop the rising feeling of guilt and anxiety that burgeoned within him every time he remembered he had sent her into the heart of enemy territory. It did not matter that she had basically threatened him into doing it. He had consented, if anything happened to her it was his fault.

He found his time was divided into either being the throne room, in bed rest under the hawk-like gaze of Qabid or kneeling in the temple praying to all the gods to bring Devika back to him, safe and sound. 

And the gods, most likely annoyed at his constant pleading, heeded his prayers.

Kartik was walking in the courtyard having returned from his morning prayers when he saw the armed escort arriving with Devika in the lead. He forgot all manners then, as soon as she got off her horse he rushed forward, picked her up and spun her around before enveloping her in a bone-crushing hug.

“Get off me you big brute,” came her muffled voice.

Kartik let go of her expecting her mouth to spit curses with rapid-fire, but she only smiled up at him.

“Did you miss me?” she asked in a sickly sweet tone pinching his cheek mockingly as she used to do when they were children.

“No,” scoffed Kartik, swatting her hand away. He did not like having his cheeks pinched. “How was your trip?”

She produced a letter from her pocket. It was slightly crumpled from a week’s worth of journeying but otherwise it was still pristine, the golden eagle seal still intact. He made a move to take it from her.

“Not here,” Devika moved the letter out of his reach.

“You must be tired,” Karik, offering her his elbow. She took it. “You should get some rest.”

“No, I would like to see your reaction to it.”

They made their way to Parvaaz’s chambers, who no doubt, would be waiting anxiously for their arrival. Kartik found his mind did not wonder at the contents of the letter itself, but the man who had written it.

“What is he like?” asked Kartik after a while, unable to keep his curiosity in his mind alone. “This future potential husband of mine.”

He had been thinking about it quite a bit as he lay in bed rest, in the quiet moments, with Qabid sitting by his side to ensure he would not do any permanent damage to his shoulder. 

“I think you will be pleased” Devika’s lips curled into a smile. “Though I warrant he will be a handful”

“How so?”

“For one he is quite good looking,” they were walking up the stairs to Parvaaz's chambers now. “Not very tall, but slim and well-muscled, dark hair, a short beard. He seems quiet and thoughtful but stern, very stern. He’s got an arrogance to him too, but I suppose that comes with kingship.”

“Are you calling me arrogant?” asked Kartik.

“When were you ever humble?”

“You have a point. Tell me more about this Aman Tripathi. Why would I be disappointed?”

“He asks too many questions,” she said. “It was like I was being interrogated. He seemed a little capricious too, I could feel him toying with the idea of killing the escort and having me imprisoned. It depended on his whim.”

“I would have killed him if he harmed you.”

They were just outside Parvaaz’s chambers when he felt a tug at his elbow where Devika was holding him. She had stopped walking, he too stopped and turned to her. Her face had a deadly seriousness that Kartik did not like. Her eyes, usually vivid and full of life, now seemed to pierce into the very recesses of his sould.

“Do not underestimate him,” she said quietly. “You killed his father, he does not seem like a man who would take it lightly.”

“I will not underestimate him,” he promised, then he smiled. “Not when I have you estimate him for me.”

Devika had always been an excellent judge of character, a trait that allowed her to climb up quite competently in ruthless politics of the Akhtari court. It was also what had kept him on his throne. It was one of the reasons why he had consented to let her go to Chandan, the capital of Mahan, to meet Aman.

Her grip on his arm tightened, entreating him to earnestness. “Promise me you will tread carefully,” she said.

He let his smile slough off to reveal a more sincere expression, solemnly he answered her “I will. I promise.”

She let out a sigh at that. 

“We should go inside,” said Kartik hurriedly gesturing to the door. “Parvaaz would be waiting.”

When they were inside they found that Parvaaz was not alone, Qabid was with him. Though Qabid technically had no advisory power, Kartik, Devika and Parvaaz trusted him enough to tell him their whole plan and seek his advice. Qabid smiled up pleasantly.

“You are back,”he exclaimed, smiling at Devika. 

“How was your trip?”asked Parvaaz.

“We can discuss that later,” said Devika, placing the letter on the table. “I have his reply.”

“I’ll do the honours,” said Kartik, before anyone could argue he scooped up the letter, tore the golden seal and read.

_ Kartik Singh King of Akhtar _

_ I accept your terms. I shall see you then on the third day of the month Karam. My people are tired of fighting, but I am not. I have not even begun.  _

_ Aman Tripathi, King of Mahan _

It was written in Akhtari, the handwriting was perfect, practiced and precise. It was also very small. In fact, had it been any smaller, Kartik would have needed to borrow Parvaaz’s spectacles to read it.

“He doesn’t mince words does he?” said Kartik placing the letter on the table where everyone could read it.

“What does he mean by,  _ My people are tired of fighting, but I am not. I have not even begun. _ ” said Parvaaz.

“I believe it means that,” said Qabid. “He hasn’t quite forgiven our king for killing his father. Even if his people accept an alliance, he will not. Not truly.”

Kartik stared at the letter, the broken seal, the now mutilated gold wax eagle and wondered whether the gods hated him.

“I never meant to kill Shankar,” he said quietly. 

He felt Devika’s hand on his shoulder. “We know.”

“But he does not know that,” Kartik felt the pain in his shoulder flare up again, saw the Battle of the Broken Will before his eyes, in flashes. The dead bodies. The crows, ravenous, circling the battlefield. His sword sticking out of Shankar’s throat. He clenched his fists, letting the nails dig into his palms.

“Speaking of knowledge,” said Devika, her attempt to lighten the mood evident. She knew his every mood, where his brain was spiralling towards. She knew how to counter it. “I had learned something of interest on this trip.”

“What was it?” he asked, grateful.

“It turns out, we too have sent a proposal for marriage.”

Almost at once Kartik laughed. It was a laughter that started deep within his throat. It came out as wild, fierce and bright. It came out like glittering wildfire and burned through the room.

~~~

When Sunaina Tripathi heard that her son was going to meet with the Akhtari King she resolved to go with him. She also resolved to bring Kusum with her. She had not confronted Aman yet, but she heard whispers of marriage between the two kings. 

Marriage? Without consulting her? A part of Sunaina chafed at the thought. She had been hoping to marry Aman to Kusum. And why not? Kusum was a sweet girl, kind, pretty, with the manners and conduct of a noble lady. She was well suited to being a queen. There was also the matter of securing an heir. It was much cleaner when an heir was made in the marriage bed.

There was also another part of Sunaina, the part that searched and craved for a sliver, a semblance of humanity to enter her son's heart, the part that wished for him to renounce the ten-year vengeance. That part of her rejoiced. Could it be true? Could Aman really be putting away those feelings that had grown in him, infected him like an unchecked wound? She doubted it, but one could hope, could they not?

The servants already packed for the trip to the temple to Okhine in the disputed region of Balkar. Tomorrow, they were to travel on the Bastard Road, which before the Three Hundred Year War was known as the Lordly Road. It was the road that led directly to the capital of Akhtar, Khorshid. It also passed through the region of Balkar and through Chaman Tripathi’s country estate. 

They would be stopping there, on their way. 

At the thought of her brother-in-law, Sunaina turned to Champa. Champa along with Kusum were sitting with Sunaina in her chambers, embroidering a new banner for the throne room. When Chaman had broken ties with the court, his relationship with his wife Champa had also been shattered. For the life of her Sunaina, never figured out what had caused them to separate. Chaman never wrote about it in his scant letters, and Champa refused to utter his name. Sunaina decided to venture into unspoken territory once more. 

“Are you sure you do not want to come with us? It will be rather lonely, with all of us leaving. Kaali is a good man, but he is rather boring.”

Since Sunaina was going with them, Aman had decided to leave Kaali in charge while they were going to be in Balkar. There was no one he trusted more.

Champa visibly stiffened at those words, understanding the meaning behind them, her sewing needle hovering in the air. Kusum turned to her curiously. 

“I will be fine,” she said curtly. “You need not worry about me.”

“Aman, Rajini and Keshav will be gone, so will I,” said Sunaina. “It would be nice to have the whole family together.”

She emphasized the last few words, ensuring that Champa understood her meaning. She did.

“I will be fine,” she replied stiffly, resuming the needlework. It seemed she had no intention of speaking any further.

Sunaina did not like this, this coldness. It stood out in stark contrast to the memories of their younger years. She remembered the first time she and Champa had met Shankar and Chaman. It had been during Phulantari, the spring celebrations. She and Champa, then best friends and as inseparable as sisters, had come to see their first Phulantari celebration in the Capital of Chandan. They were sixteen, young and filled to the brink with the rumors of glittering jewels, bright gowns, and dreams of love and spring. And when they had been asked to dance with the two princes, it felt like something right out of a fairy tale. 

Sunaina smiled sadly then.  _ Look at what we have become _ , she thought, a _ broken family, in a soon to be broken kingdom, led by a broken man. _

It was then that Kusum stood up.

“My Ladies, I must go,” she announced. “It is getting late, I must rest for the journey tomorrow.”

Sunaina looked at the charming young woman before and smiled.

“Go forth then,” she allowed.

Watching Kusum smile back felt like watching the petals of rose unfurl. Sunaina’s heart gladdened at the sight of her. There was another reason why she wanted Kusum to marry Aman. In Kusum, she saw all that was good and beautiful. She had hoped Aman’s marriage to her would bring out the goodness she knew was still in him, she had hoped the marriage would bring the whole family together once again, if only for a moment. 

Sunaina had been in a broken family, a grey family for far too long. Who could blame her if she wanted to include some color into it?

  
  



	11. A Matter of Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Mehan for helping me crack the last line of the poem <3.

Pride was everything and nothing

The weapon of kings and their downfall

But it is something I would sacrifice

So that our nations remain standing tall

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Kusum did in fact want to rest. And she had felt a strange sense of relief in not having to lie to Sunaina about it for once. In the first few years of her deception, she had felt a sense of pleasure in deceiving the other woman. But now she only felt dread. Somehow she had come to love the Queen Mother, in her own way. And that love managed to exist alongside her desire for the destruction of the royal family. 

The human heart, it turned out, was a complicated thing. 

Kusum closed the door to her chambers and locked it, letting out a sigh. This room too was also something she had come to cherish.

“Did you miss me?” came a voice from behind her.

Kusum gave a start before relaxing, realising it was only Rakesh. She turned to see him casually laying on her bed. She tried no to grimace as she took note of his dirty boots on the clean sheets.

“You should not be here,” she said sharply, the memory of their last meeting still managing to produce a sting in her heart. 

He ignored her “What is this I hear about our king marrying the Akhtari one?”

“It’s a rumour,” Kusum’s answer came out defiantly. “His mother has not mentioned it to me.”

“Rumour?” he echoed. “Yes, a rumour I’m sure. A rumour that the whole country is talking about. A rumour that involves an exchange of proposals and erotic love letters. Rumours indeed!”

He got off the bed and started to approach in a way that was almost predatory. It awakened an animal instinct in her, every nerve in her body urged her to either to fight him or flee. It used to excite her, but now it only made her afraid.

“You do not know him as I do,” she said, that made Rakesh stop in his tracks. She let out a breath. “He is too proud to whore himself to the man who killed his father.”

“Not even for the sake of his people.”

She did not answer that, she did not know for sure. There was kindness in Aman. She had seen it sometimes when he would visit the poor, the sick and the elderly, giving them hope and comfort. She had heard Rajini lament it’s diminishing nature and she had often heard Sunaina relate the story of how he had comforted one of the serving girls who had had a miscarriage when he was ten years old and but a prince. 

But how did kindness and the love of one's people measure against sacrificing one’s pride, how did it measure against the shame of marrying the man who had practically ruined you. 

She was not sure, each held its own power.

She could feel Rakesh studying her silence, noting it, holding it against her. Another failure to add to the mental list he was no doubt keeping. 

“Will you be going to Kashatr then?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she whispered. Sunaina had demanded it. 

Kusum knew it would benefit their plan, it would give her more time to charm Aman. But there was reluctance. Her heart ached at the slightest thought of the memories of her childhood. She did not know what would happen when she would eventually stand on the very soil where the blood of her family was spilled. 

“I’m coming with you,” said Rakesh.

Kusum looked sharply up at him. “How?”

“I will be a guard,” he said. “I managed to get a position.”

“How did you manage that?” she said.

Rakesh’s features darkened. “Never mind that now!” he snapped, but upon seeing the hurt on her face, his features softened and she was rewarded with a brilliant smile as he put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “I know how you might feel about going back to Kashatr. I just want to make sure you will be alright.”

_ Yes _ Kusum thought bitterly  _ you just want to make sure I am alright enough to execute my part of the plan. _

She did not voice it out loud though. Instead, she gave him a grateful smile.

“You have to leave now,” she said quietly.

His grip on her shoulders only tightened as he pulled her into him, his breath tickling her neck.

“It’s been so long,” he muttered. “Please.”

She was tired, she was weary. By the gods, she wanted to do nothing more than to close her eyes and let dreams and slumber claim her. But here was Rakesh, her Rakesh, and despite everything, she felt like she could not resist him. 

Later that night, she lay on his chest, she felt his heartbeat. Long ago she had loved the sound of it, loved and worshipped the body that it belonged to. But tonight…she felt distant. Their lovemaking held no fervour or delight for her. It did not hold any excitement. It felt like another act that she had to perform. She was good at that though, acting. 

_ I was tired _ she told herself, again and again,  _ I was tired, nothing more, nothing less. _

~~~

The morning of their departure arrived and Rajini had not slept. She had spent the night pacing her chambers, the only solace she could find was in taking out her sword and practicing with it. 

For one she was worried about what her cousin was planning. Mostly because he had not uttered a word. He had not given up the idea of revenge that much was sure. But what did he gain from peace, even if it was momentary? No doubt he had some complex plan roiling, moulding, forming in his head. 

When Devika had left, her parting words ringing through the room, Aman had remained on his throne, seemingly calm, as still as if he had been carved onto it. The only sign of movement, his fists tightening until his knuckles were pale. He had stared straight ahead, his eyes burning with...something. Rajini had not been able to place the emotion.

It seemed he knew they had many questions, but he was not in the mood to answer them. Only Kaali had been daring enough to berate the King.

“Why Aman?” he had demanded. “You cannot form an alliance with him, you know that.”

Aman had stared more determinedly ahead. He had not answered Kaali. Not a muscle had moved. 

“He will betray you, he will betray this alliance,” said Kaali. “And marriage, it seems, maybe in the discussion. You cannot marry him! I shall not allow it!”

Still, Aman had not answered him.

“Where is your pride?” Kaali continued. “If Shankar were here-”

“Father is dead,” Aman had said, finally speaking, his voice was low and steady but clear. Every word crisp, sharp, cutting through the room, leaving the air bleeding. “You are not him, you are not king. You are not even regent. He is not here, he is not king. But I am. Neither of you can tell me what to do. Don’t you know, I feel his absence every damned day? So don’t you dare presume that I will forget him, don’t you dare presume I will forget what Kartik did to him. Now leave me be.”

They had left him and he had rewarded their obedience with stony silence, broken by the occasional order or royal decree. 

“Lighten up sister,” came the voice of Keshav beside her. “We’re going to see father soon. Surely that should be a cause of celebration.”

They were now astride their horses in the courtyard ready to start the procession out of the city. Everything was in order, every soldier in line. Even Kusum, to Rajini’s disappointment, had gone into an opulent and comfortable horse-drawn carriage with Sunaina. Foolishly Rajini had hoped she would ride with them.

The only thing missing was their king. 

At the mention of their father, Chaman, Rajini’s mood instantly brightened. The love she held for her father was like no other. He had gifted her her first dagger, when she was nine, it was a pretty thing with a rose carved on the hilt, it was also sharp. Only the gods knew how many dresses she had ripped, how many feet she had stabbed under banquet tables. She still kept that dagger by her side, it was her constant in everything. But then another thought dampened the mood.

“How do you think it will go?” asked Rajini. “Aman meeting father again.”

“Who cares about Aman?”   
  


“The whole country for one.”

Keshav sighed “I don’t think Aman will do anything stupid. Neither will father. There is no need to worry, besides we haven’t seen Father in a whole year. Think about how glad he’s going to be to see us.”

With that Keshav gave her a smile. For once Rajini did not feel the need to knock it off his face. Keshav loved their father as much as Rajini did. Chaman had given Keshav his first book when he was five,  _ The Lion and the Eagle and Other Tales _ , a book of children’s parables. Sometimes when Rajini would go to his chambers to wake him in the early hours of the morning, she would find him asleep with the book, now worn and tattered, open on his chest. 

“If only mother would come with us,” said Rajini. “I think his heart will burst with joy if he sees her again.”

Keshav’s smile turned into a grimace and Rajini wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

It was at that moment that Aman finally arrived, dressed in dark riding leathers, a blue and gold cloak wrapped carelessly around his shoulders. Behind him was Kaali, ready to send them off. 

Aman’s horse was stationed next to Rajini’s, it was the white stallion that Akhtar had sent to them. They had decided it would be wise, politically, a symbol of their acceptance, if Aman rode it. Besides, it was a magnificent horse. 

Rajini watched as Aman mounted. Under the pale late autumn morning, with a touch of bitterness in the wind heralding the coming of winter, he gave her a rare smile. She knew in that moment he had forgotten, the shadow of Shankar, the vengeance, here was her cousin, the little boy. She cherished the moment. It lasted a total of thirty seconds.

Kaali came up to the other side of Aman and looked up at him.

“Remember your pride,” he said to Aman. “We are nothing without it.”

Aman’s smile fell. The boy was once again, gone. The dreadful king took his place.


	12. A Road for Bastards and Scoundrels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was rushedly written because I wanted to keep to schedule. Please excuse the pacing. But hey one more chapter to go until Karman finally meet.

This road leads to castle ruins

And this road to death 

Chose wisely my lords 

While you still have breath

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Before the Three Hundred Year War both countries used to call the road that connected them, the Lordly Road. Kartik did not know what they called it in Mahan now, but the Akhtari now called it the Scoundrel’s Road. 

If he married Aman he wondered what they would call it then. He also wondered whether Aman would agree to a marriage in the first place. What would Aman think of him? Would his hatred wither away? Or would it stay there, stubborn and unmoving as a stone?

“What are you thinking about?” asked Devika who rode beside him. 

She was riding a lovely black horse, her favourite, the same pace as him. His own mount was the chestnut mare that Mahan had sent.  _ For diplomatic reasons _ Devika had said when she handed him the reins.

“I’m thinking about the glory that is my future husband,” said Kartik, in a tone that was mockingly lovesick. 

Devika sighed. “You don’t even know what he looks like. Not properly.”

“You said he was handsome.”

“My idea of handsome and yours may be different.”

“It hardly ever is,” said Kartik. “Besides I’m not thinking of him in  _ that _ way.”

“I never said you were,”

“You implied it.”

“What way were you thinking of then?” asked Devika, her curiosity clearly piqued.

“It’s nothing,” not answering her truthfully, knowing she would take it the wrong way.

It may be hard to believe but he did have some semblance of pride buried deep in his soul. Letting her think that he was lusting after this king may be preferable to her thinking that he was worried about how Aman would perceive him.

“So you  _ were  _ thinking about bedding him.”

Nevermind, it was worse.

“No!” his reply came out more impassioned than he had wanted, he knew it only cemented his guilt in Devika’s eyes. His suspicions were confirmed when she laughed. “I was only thinking…” he continued and stopped. What could he possibly tell her? “I was only wondering if he spoke Akhtari,” he ended lamely.

“He’s a noble,” said Devika. “Of course he knows Akhtari, if not, you know enough Mahanite to communicate. Then again you don’t really have to communicate much if you want him in your-”

“I like to recite poetry to my lovers when I take them to bed. It feels more intimate.” he interrupted her, knowing  _ exactly _ what she was going to say. It was far too early in the morning for this. “Besides, much has been lost, what if the dialect has fallen out of fashion, what if-”

Devika gave him a bemused look “Are you...are you  _ nervous _ ?”

He did not answer her but ushered his horse to move faster. The truth was he  _ was _ nervous, if not a little terrified at the thought of meeting the new king. In a way he had come to respect Aman from afar, and respect came with a healthy dose of fear. Did Aman also respect him? Somehow Kartik doubted it.

“It’s alright to be nervous Kartik,” came Devika’s voice, her tone was no longer joking. “I think you’re going to do fine. You’ve done so much for this country already. Built it up from the degradation your father put us in. Some petty king is not going to take that away from us.” 

He turned and smiled at her. “Thanks, Devi.” he paused. “I could not have done it without you.”

They rode further talking of things other than the destination of their journey, they did this until sunset whereby they reached a suitable clearing where they could rest.

Kartik had always thought it important to show that a king or queen was like any other person. He will not take on the status of god on earth like, his ancestors of old, neither would he proclaim himself untouchable. So as soon as he dismounted he busied himself helping the servants and soldiers in getting the tents ready, helping carry the heavy canvas and the tent poles, all the while exchanging small talk and jokes. 

By the time they were finished the stars were glittering against the deep velvet blue of the night. The flames of the dozen fires curling in tendrils, dancing with the wind and the flying embers. Around him Kartik heard laughter, he heard lines of different songs. Songs that were bawdy or beautiful or even songs that sang of heroes long dead. He leaned back against a tree at the edge of the clearing, closed his eyes and smiled, taking in the sounds of love, life and laughter.

_ Five more days of travel. _ He thought.  _ Five more days of happiness. Five more days until I know if I condemn my country to ruin or unite the two nations like never before. _

~~~

When Chaman Tripathi received the message that Aman and the rest of the royal entourage would be arriving, staying a night at his country estate he could not believe his eyes. For one the letter had been written in  _ Aman’s  _ hand. He and Aman had not spoken, written or communicated to each other in the past ten years. 

For another, he had expected war, he had expected Aman to call his banners and ride out to the border and kill King Kartik. He had not expected him to actually meet with the Akhtari king. And the talk of marriage that had swept across the nation like wildfire? Chaman was not sure what to make of it. 

When the royal party finally arrived at mid-morning, Chaman was ready to receive them. His household had been busy preparing the meals and Chaman had noted pride that even though they had to feed hundreds of men, there was still enough food set aside for the coming winter. 

Aman was in the lead, astride a magnificent white stallion, clad in dark riding leathers and a blue cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Chaman had expected sullenness and silence from Aman, they had not, after all, left each other on good terms. 

But when Aman had gotten off his horse, and the rest of the royal entourage had assembled, in the courtyard he approached Chaman and embraced him, before the eyes of all.

“Hello Uncle,” he said. “It’s good to see that you are healthy.”

“It is good to see you too,” said Chaman

He was acutely aware of the difference in their tones. While Chaman’s was warm, relieved even, Aman’s were formal, precise and one could even say...cold. Even the embrace, though full-bodied and tight, held a distance of its own. But Chaman smiled and took it, glad that he had even gotten this much. 

He did not dwell on this for long for as soon as he had exchanged greetings with Aman, the rest of the family had arrived to greet him. 

Rajini had rushed up to him first, embracing him tightly, kissing his cheek telling him how much she had missed him. If Aman’s embrace had been ice, Rajini’s was fire. Warm and fierce, burning away at the misery that had collected in his heart. He hugged her back with just as much fury. Not realising how much he truly missed her until that very moment. 

“You look stronger,” he told her once they had pulled away, lightly punching her shoulder, feeling hardened muscle beneath. “How is training?”

“Not half bad,” she replied. “My archery hasn’t gotten any better though.”

Chaman glanced at her bad eye. That was a tragedy in itself. Rajini had once been a great archer, if not the greatest archer in all of Mahan. But the day Shankar had died was the day Rajini had lost her eye trying to defend his body alongside Kaali. The sword strike from Parmesh, the then Commander-in-Chief of the Akhtari army, had taken out her eye, so she had taken his life. 

From her letters he knew that recovery had been slow, so had been regaining that natural instinct honed by ten years of training and relying on two eyes. But she had managed it, save for archery. He was proud of her, but at the same time he wished he had been there for her, been there to encourage her in person. He hoped his letters had provided some sort of comfort.

“We can’t all be perfect,” said Chaman pinching her cheek. When she was little she would swat his hand away, but now she only smiled at him. 

The next to greet him was Keshav who’s embrace too held a sweetness and warmth that Chaman craved.

“You got old father,” said Keshav jokingly. 

“And you’re not getting any younger,” retorted Chaman, letting out a low chuckle, slapping him on the shoulder.  _ Scholar’s shoulders  _ Chaman noted, mentally comparing them to Rajini’s, if he had slapped them any harder he was sure they would have broken. “Was the last book I sent you to your liking?”

“Yes, thank you father,” said Keshav. “Though I feel that the writer may have been too sympathetic to Erhan and Dilaram.”

“They were great men,”

“They were conquerors,”

“Please do not start a debate on the front steps,” it was Sunaina. “We’re getting cold.”

Chaman smiled and went forward to embrace his sister-in-law “Sorry Bhabhi, please all of you come in. I have instructed Anjali to make arrangements for the men and the servants so you need not worry about them.”

He then noticed another woman standing next to Sunaina, as pretty as a flower, dressed in light pink.

“My Lady,” said Chaman, observing his manners. “I believe we have not met.”

“I am Kusum,” said the other woman, curtsying prettily. “You may not have heard of me, but Rajini has told me much of you. I have heard you were a great statesman and lawmaker in your younger years. And that you are also a great poet and singer. I had been hoping you would sing for us today.”

Chaman turned to Rajini, to see a barely perceptible blush creep up on her face. He would not have noticed it if he wasn’t her father and attuned to all her moods.  _ Was this _ he wondered  _ the reason why Rajini had rejected all suitors in the last five years? _

“Of course,” he said to Kusum. “But I’m afraid in order to do that, we must all be inside.”

And with that they were all ushered in, Chaman found himself looking despondently out of the door, as the servants led the guests to their rooms where they would be staying. Seeing his children, seeing his family had not truly healed the pain he carried in his heart, it made him more acutely aware of what he was missing.

“She’s not here, though she should be.”

Chaman turned to see Sunaina standing behind him.

“It does not matter,” he said. “I have my children’s love don’t I?”

  
  
“You and I both know it does matter,” Sunaina said softly. “Champa misses you.”

“She’s better off without me.”

“What happened between you two?”

Chaman closed the front door and went to the drawing-room, sitting on one of the great chairs, Sunaina following him, sitting opposite him, still expecting an answer.

“Best to leave it in the past, Bhabhi,” the memory of Champa’s tears piercing his heart. “Besides, there are more pressing matters at hand. What takes you to Balkar?”

“We are to meet the Akhtari king.” said Sunaina. “Aman has not told me why. I assume some sort of alliance, but against what I am not sure. The Akhtari attacked a village in Balkar, I assumed Aman was going to war, but...”   
  


“Is it marriage?”

“Truth be told I am not sure,” said Sunaina. “A part of me believes him too proud for that, another...another part of me thinks the kindness in him would shine through and perhaps he has given up this vengeance. Which is why I am here with him, I want to know the man my son has become.”

They sat in silence until gradually everyone else filed into the drawing refreshed from their journey and thoroughly ravenous. So they ate, and during the meal Chaman observed his nephew. There was steeliness to him that lay visibly concealed beneath a facade of immaculate courtesy. His nephew talked, of everything and anything with an earnestness, endeavouring to smoothen the rocky relationship between them. Aman did not speak of Balkar, not of Kartik or Akhtar, or even marriage. 

“Papa,” said Rajini when they were once again in the drawing-room, sitting after a hearty meal. “Would you sing us a song? You promised Kusum.”

He turned to this Kusum, the woman it seemed who had taken his daughter’s heart “What song would you like to listen to? A love song perhaps?”

Kusum grimaced at that and shook her head. Chaman wondered what pains lay concealed in her heart. Which lover had wronged her so that she would grimace at the very word love. 

“A song of blood,” she said. “A song of war.”

Chaman then knew which song he was to sing, he motioned for Anjali to bring his sitar. When all was ready and all his guests, even Aman were sitting, leaning forward with rapt attention, he started on the tale of Erhan and Dilaram. Two brothers, two conquerors who had once ruled over the united nations of Mahan and Akhtar. When Dilaram had fallen in battle Erhan had shielded his body with his own from the onslaught of arrows, dying in the process.

“Erhan, was the king of kings

For shadow of legend, we all shall sing

He ruled by the edge of his blade

The stain of his bloodied kingdom shan’t fade

His heart was stone, his soul was steel

His dim halls haunted where once thousands kneel

He saw no stars only the darkness of the sky

The children wail and the gods doth cry

But there one, his brother Dilaram

In the end when only death held charm

Erhan’s body became a shield

Their lifeless eyes finally reflecting heavens field”

Thus Chaman ended the song. As soon as he did, Aman rose and left the room. Silence his loudest scream. Chaman could have sworn he saw tears in his nephew's eyes.

  
  



	13. The Weeping God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Mihindie, for listening to all my half baked ideas for their first meeting and for eventually galaxy braining this scene with me. This is my favourite chapter out of anything I’ve written so far. Honestly I wish I could art so I could draw their first meeting. fhdsjak

Your heart is cold my love

Let me thaw it with flames, and tears

It seems we were made as mirrors

For in you I see all my hopes and fears

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

After a week’s worth of travel, they finally arrived at the village of Kashatr in Balkar. Kartik thought he knew what to expect. He had fought his first war at fourteen, he knew how death and destruction looked like. While he definitely had not romanticised anything, the memories had been rendered blunt by time. In short, they hurt less, after the opium and now the Qabid’s sleeping draught, he had learned to live with them. So when the royal entourage arrived at Kashtar, Kartik’s heart was ripped anew. 

The village was not burnt to the ground as he had expected, though some buildings did have scorch marks and many of the crops were burned. The people were not in despair, but working hard, with weary faces and forced smiles, trying to get things back in order. 

Somehow that was worse than seeing downright destruction. To see these people trying to regain what they lost, trying to brave the storm that had left them ravaged, made his heart swell with pride and bleed with sadness. He knew they would want to house him in their homes, provide him with anything they could. 

He also knew he simply could not allow them to do that.

His gaze turned to the great temple dedicated to Okhine, it stood apart on a hill, magnificent columns of white marble glittering in the autumn sun, untouched by the ruin brought upon the village. Of course, it was untouched, none could spill blood there. Men do not fear other men, it seemed, they fear the gods, the unknown force that pushes and plays with their very lives. 

When he got off his horse, followed suit by his guards and advisors, he was met by the village elder, a wizened old woman, frail of body, who had to be supported by a stick, carved to look like a serpent. Behind her half of the village was gathered. The woman, Kartik judged from her head of white hair and deep wrinkles was perhaps eighty or ninety. A true marvel, not even Kartik expected to live that long.

“Greetings King,” said the old woman, bowing her head in acknowledgment to Kartik’s status. “I am Vahi.”

Kartik bent down and touched her feet with his hands, before rising, placing those very hands against his own chest. A sign of respect to elders. He may be King, but that did not mean he had to forgo respect for those who were older than him.

“Greetings Mother,” he said. “You surely know why I am here. Tell me how are you all faring?”

“Better,” the old woman admitted. “It gladdens us to know that there may be peace yet. You must come with us, my sons will show you to your lodgings.”

“Mother,” Kartik interrupted, looking at the village being slowly rebuilt. “I am grateful for your hospitality truly, but if you do not mind, I would like to decline, we will make camp outside the village,” he noted the burned crops. “I also hereby decree that half our rations should be distributed amongst the village and half our soldiers be spared for repairs.” he saw the old woman Vahi, starting to object. “No Mother, I will not rescind this, you have suffered enough. It is my duty to protect and look after you.”

“We are doubly blessed,” said Vahi.

“Doubly?” it was Parvaaz who questioned this time.

“Yes,” confirmed the old woman. “The other King. Aman of Mahan, he arrived only a little earlier than you, his entourage too declined the offer of lodgings and is camped outside the west side of the village. He made the same decree you did about the food and the men. I can only see great things coming from this meeting.”

Kartik was not so sure but smiled and allowed Vahi to hold on to hope. The gods knew they all needed it.

“It is my wish that you may be present in this meeting,” was Kartik’s only reply to the elderly woman. “It will concern your village after all.”

That night Kartik back in his tent found he could not sleep. He found he could not touch Qabid’s sleeping draught, which no doubt would have helped ease him into grey slumber. Instead, he found himself rising from the mattress, putting on a pair of old trousers and a loose white shirt. In the end, he strapped his sword to his waist. 

With that he opened the flap of his tent when he was sure no one was looking in his direction, he snuck out and made his way towards the hill, towards the temple of Okhine, God of Dreams and Death. Kartik thought the temple aptly named. In the moonlight, the white marble took on a deathly pale yet strangely dream-like pallor.

It looked beautiful. It looked ethereal. It looked haunted. 

Haunted most of all.

Kartik made his way through the great marble columns. If the outside of the temple had unearthly pale glitter, the inside, with great torches burning in the darkness looked like a muted hell. Still, Kartik made his way through the columns, through the priests and priestesses who gazed at him curiously until he reached the heart of the temple complex.

He brought face to face with the magnificent statue of Okhine. It was carved in the form of a man in the prime of his youth, naked but for a cloth draped over his shoulders, artfully covering his loins and a blindfold at his eyes. His chest was pierced by a sword, his right which was wrapped around the hilt, seemed to drive it in further. His face was beautiful, cherubic, full lips parted in either grief or ecstasy. Though Okhine was blindfolded, there were tears carved into his cheeks. 

The statue was wrought from obsidian. Under the glow of the temple fires, it looked even more beautiful and macabre than it would have in daylight. The flames glittered like a thousand embers on the plains and dips of the statue. It looked like something risen from the depths of hell itself.

Kartik kneeled before it.

Despite their many cultural and religious differences between Mahan and Akhtar, Okhine was a god that remained firmly affixed in the center of both their religions, while everything else changed. 

Life, after all, was built on dreams and death.

Kartik drew his sword. It was a fine thing, with the pommel shaped like a lion’s head. It was the sword of his ancestors, it represented a vow to keep his people safe. It was also the sword that had killed Shankar Tripathi. He placed it before him, before the statue of the god. He raised his hands, his palms turned upwards, in supplication and he prayed.

_Help me keep this oath I swore at my crowning. Help me keep my people safe._

~~~

Long after they had left Chaman’s estate the song of Erhan and Dilaram rang in Aman’s ears. Even now five days later, finally in Balkar, as he made his way towards the temple of Okhine in the middle of the night, sneaking out of the camp they made at the west of the village he could hear the last lines.

_Erhan’s body became a shield_

_Lifeless eyes finally reflecting heavens field_

A rational part of him knew that he had been only eleven years old. He was young, he could not have done anything. But the other part of him whispered, _you should have been there, it should have been you who defended his body, you could have killed Kartik then and there or died in the process_. When Chaman had sung it, Aman could not help but weep, the feelings of guilt that he had fed to his revenge resurfacing. 

But there was more, what truly broke him was the pain in his Uncle’s voice. He had always thought Chaman disloyal for not wanting to incite revenge on the man who had killed his own brother. He had built up the image of Chaman as a coward, a man who ran away, a man without loyalty. But when he heard the rawness in his voice as he sang, he wondered whether Chaman’s feelings were more complicated. 

Did his uncle also feel the same guilt that racked, Aman? Did he too wish he had been there to protect Shankar’s body, just as Erhan had done with Dilaram? They had been brothers after all. But to admit that was to admit that somehow Chaman had been right all along, that revenge was not the way. Aman could not do that. Revenge was all he had left. 

Aman trudged up the hill, his thoughts swimming, he was barely able to appreciate the beauty of the temple. The song of Erhan and Dilaram was not the only thing that gnawed at his mind. 

Tomorrow he was to come face to face with the man who had killed his father. The man he had vowed he would one day see dead at the end of his father’s sword.

At the very thought, Aman’s hands grasped the sword in question, his nerves were set alight with a secret fire that threatened to strike fear into his very heart. What if he had misjudged Kartik? From his letter, it seemed as if Kartik actually cared about his people. Not in the selfish way Kings often cared, but selflessly. _Would he really let me kill him if only it meant his people were safe?_

No, that was not right. Kartik killed his father. Kartik had taken away his childhood. No selfless man did that. He could not give up on his vengeance. He would be dishonoring his father’s memory if he did.

Aman, finally breaking away from his thoughts, realised he reached the entrance of the temple. He took one breath and erased everything from his mind. He had come here not only to seek whatever the gods sought fit to give him but to find some solace. He might as well devote his sleepless hours to religion and whatever it could bring him.

He entered the temple, travelling through the torchlit amber columned halls to the very centre, the very heart of the temple where he knew the statue of Okhine resided. He had expected to be alone, save for the priests and priestesses, so it came as a surprise when he entered the temple to see a silhouette of a man already kneeling before Okhine, his hands, palms not joined, but instead turned upwards in supplication. None in Mahan prayed like that so Aman assumed he was Akhtari. 

So not to disturb him, Aman walked forward, slowly and softly, all the while taking the time to study this man in five short glimpses. 

The first glimpse: even kneeling one could tell that he was tall and broad-shouldered, the build of a warrior honed for battle. 

The second: His dark hair though short, was tousled and unkempt.

The third: much like Aman he was wearing dark trousers and a simple white shirt slightly opened at the front to reveal hardened muscle.

The fourth: he wore no jewelry except for a nose ring, and the silver ring on his right middle finger in the shape of a lion’s head. An Akhtari noble, Aman concluded.

The fifth: the man had let his beard go unshaven and uncut, for perhaps a week. But even under that one could tell that he was a handsome man, young and strong, full of life. His features held such vibrancy and beauty, that even now in the placidity and seriousness of prayer, Aman could tell that if he smiled, it would be nothing short of seeing the sunrise.

Aman now stood next to the kneeling man, who, so caught up in prayer, had not noticed his presence. Here he noted that the other man had a sword laid before him. A magnificent blade, sheathed in red, with a silver lion carved onto the pommel. 

Aman unbuckled his own sword from his waist, the sword that had once been his father’s and laid it in front of him. The sword he had vowed to kill Kartik Singh with. He knelt beside the other man and joined his hands. 

For a moment he let himself smile.

He and the other man, with the swords before them, kneeling, were almost mirrors. The only difference was their hands. The other man’s palms were upturned in the Akhtari fashion, while Aman’s were joined in the Mahanite.

Aman tore his eyes away from the other man, closing them, he then prayed.

_Help me keep this oath I swore at my crowning. Let me not dishonour my father’s memory._

He repeated this over and over again in his mind. It became a mantra, the very doctrine of his life now elevated to prayer.

It was then that he heard a stifled sob from beside him. Aman turned to see the other man's face had contorted, in an attempt to restrain his emotions. But they spilled out anyway in the form of tears. 

Aman watched as they slid rapidly down his cheeks in furious strokes, he watched as the other man, lifted his chin, opened his eyes, and looked up at the statue of the god. Under the torchlight, his tears looked like molten flame, and in his weeping eyes reflected the statue of Okhine, the weeping God. 

The other man may have been Akhtari, but Aman felt something pierce the very recesses of his soul. He felt pity for this man, compassion even. He found he wanted to comfort him. He found he wanted to make him smile, just once.

“Why do you weep?” Aman finally asked, in Akhtari.

The other man turned towards Aman as if only just noticing his presence. He gave Aman a small smile so sad and sweet that the pain he felt for the weeping man only deepened.

“I weep for my people,” he replied. His voice was rich and low, with a musical lilt that Aman found pleasing. “I weep for I do not what will happen to them.”

Aman understood that. While vengeance was first and foremost, a part of him too feared for his people and what may come if he did not secure an alliance with Akhtar.

“All shall be well,” said Aman, he found himself turning towards him so that they faced each other. “The Kings will be meeting tomorrow. I...I have faith that they will not endanger our lives.”

He did not want to tell the other man that he was in fact talking to one of the kings. Besides, he was not sure what would happen between him and Kartik tomorrow, but for now he wanted to give the weeping man some semblance of hope.

“You say that with so much conviction,” the man replied bowing his head. 

Aman found himself taking the other man’s face in his hands, surprised at his own forwardness. The skin was warm and soft against his hands, the beard rough but not unpleasant. He found himself wiping away the other man’s tears. He was no king at this moment, he was not Aman Tripathi, he was just one man comforting another.

“We must have faith,” said Aman, “Do not despair, do not lose hope my friend all shall be well. Do you hear me?”

The other man gave a start and looked at Aman properly for the first time, meeting his eyes, searchingly, seeming to devour his every feature with the ravenous hunger of someone starved. 

He took Aman’s hands in his own, catching his fingers before he could wipe away more of his tears. Then he smiled. Aman found he had guessed right, his smile was broad and bright, a whole summer's worth of blazing suns manifested in his lips. The other man squeezed his fingers, an intimacy that seemed almost normal in this torchlit temple, under the statue of a suicidal god.

“You are Mahanite,” he said to Aman. “Yet you call me friend. You seek to comfort me. Why?”

“We have been at war for so long. Perhaps it is time things changed.” Aman paused then. “How do you know I am of Mahan?”

“Your sword, it has a golden eagle pommel. And your accent, it is strange, but not without its beauty.”

Aman smiled then, glad the other man could not see the blush creep to his face. He was also acutely aware of their fingers, still entwined.

“What is your name?” asked Aman.

“Amitabh,” said the man. “And yours?”

“Chandravadan,” it was the first name to come to Aman’s head and he wanted to slap himself for even thinking of it.

“Chandravadan,” Amitabh repeated and somehow he made the ridiculous name sound beautiful. Aman felt the urge to tell him his real name if only to see how it sounded on Amitabh’s tongue. “Thank you, for your words of comfort. They have given me hope. If your king is half as compassionate as you I believe there is a chance yet for our nations.”

“If _your_ king,” said Aman. “Cares half as much for his people as you do. I second your sentiment.”

Amitabh smiled again, it was less open than his last one, with an almost ironic touch that Aman could not figure out the meaning of. They sat in contented silence, their fingers absent-mindedly cavorting with each other. For a while, neither of them wanted to move, or talk. For a while, the whole world seemed at peace.  
  


“I should go,” said Amitabh, he unlaced his fingers from Aman’s, picked up his sword and stood, strapping it once again to his waist. He seemed almost reluctant to leave. “The sun will be up soon. I hope to see you again.”

“If fate decrees that we should meet again Amitabh,” said Aman. “I should be glad of it.”  
  


Amitabh turned as if to walk away then, he turned back and looked at Aman with those brilliant dark eyes of his. They glittered not, this time, with tears, but with something akin to hope.

“I will not forget this, Chandravadhan, what you did for me,” he said softly. “I will remember till my dying day. I vow it.”

With that he left. Aman felt a burning ache, a carnal longing where their fingers had just met. He did not know what had happened between them, what had caused him to be so comforting and intimate towards this Akhtari noble. 

All he knew was that for the first time in a long time his heart had forgotten the malice and anger that raged, an undercurrent through all his emotions. For the first time, his heart had felt nothing but pure unadulterated compassion. He let himself savour it for a while, knowing when the old dark emotions came, they would ravage him with a fury thousand-fold.

~~~  
  


While writing this I was listening to [Golden by Fall Out Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5dOHFE_WNo). I highly recommend listening to the song. 


	14. Two Kalgis

There are gods and there are men

Between them are the kings

Do not fear fate dear child

It is after all but a little thing

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

For the whole journey from the temple back to his tent, Kartik found that he could not stop smiling. He had gone into the temple as a man driven by desperation and fear and he came out calm, collected brimming with hope. 

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the other man’s face in excruciating detail with its short beard, his sweet smile, his one earring gleaming the torchlight and his eyes. Mostly he remembered his eyes, large, dark and brilliant, so full of affection and desperate hope, that it alone had shed light and dispelled the darkness that had started to settle in Kartik’s heart.

He had meant it when he said that he would not forget what Chandravadan had done for him, despite technically being his enemy, despite being Mahanite. He will not forget how despite all this the other man had sought to comfort him. 

Before he had come, Kartik had almost worked himself into a fury with his prayers and his worries about the fate of his people if he failed. Instead of solace Okhine sought fit to give him naught but turmoil. Then he had heard those words break through that turmoil, like a bright sword. The voice had been low, soft yet clear and sharp.

_Why do you weep?_

Kartik remembered every word, every gesture. He remembered the feeling of hope burgeoning in him as he shared more of his time with the other man. 

He had memorised it as if it were a poem. 

He could still feel Chandravadan’s fingers, brushing away his tears squeezing, his hands. His very touch was like a rush of cool water on a stifling summer’s day.

He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t fallen in love tonight. He was not entirely sure what kind of love it was just yet. But it was love. That much he knew. In the torchlit temple, under the statue of Okhine, when their hands joined, when their eyes met, what else could it have been?

_“Chandravadan”_ he whispered to himself. 

In other circumstances, the name would have sounded ridiculous to Kartik’s ears. But everything about Chandravadan had been nothing short of heaven, he could not even begrudge him his name.

Still smiling he opened the flap to his opulent tent and gave a start when he saw Qabid sitting on one of the chairs.

“What are you doing here?” asked Kartik.

“Where have you been?” Qabid countered.

“The temple,” said Kartik. There was no point in lying to Qabid. “I was praying.”

“I’ve never known worship to cause people to smile as if they have just had the greatest bedding in their life,” replied Qabid tartly. 

Kartik's smile only deepened. Qabid wouldn’t understand. Or maybe he would. None the less Kartik didn’t feel like explaining. The moment felt too great, too magical to be shared with anyone. He supposed in a way Chandravadan had become a lover of sorts. He felt a deeper connection to him than any of the men he had bedded in his life. 

Unfortunately, Qabid took his smile for confirmation of his false suspicions.

“Alright, no need to get into sordid details,” he said to Kartik. “I would venture that _that_ sort of release is probably healthier than the opium. Though not as much sleep is begotten from it. That was why I was here. I wanted to make sure you took the sleeping draught. I know how nervous you can get, especially with matters of state.”

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” said Kartik. “But I am fine truly.”

“Do not be sorry,” Qabid grinned. “I haven’t seen you smile like that since before the attack on Kashatr. Who was this man you spent the night with?”

“I thought you did not want details,” said Kartik.

“Aah...so it is a secret?”

“Of a sort,” Kartik admitted.

“I shall let you keep it then,” said Qabid. “Diluting the draught may help you get some light sleep, though it is nearly sunrise, are you sure you will be able to get through the day?”

“Yes,” said Kartik. He had never felt so energised in his life. He felt he could go without sleep for days on end. “Thank you Qabid, for looking after me.”

“Someone has to do it.” said Qabid. “That person was never going to be you.” 

“I should get ready,” muttered Kartik, looking down at his simple attire. “All the jewelry and the layers, it will take a while. Why must there always be some sort of ceremony when kings meet?”

“Shall I call one of the servants to help you?” asked Qabid.

Kartik paused and considered. With much effort, he managed out “Can...can you help instead?” when he saw Qabid consider him curiously Kartik quickly added. “That is if you are not busy.”

Qabid smiled then and bowed. “I would be honoured.”

Kartik knew exactly what was in Qabid’s mind. 

The morning of his coronation, ten years ago, the week after his father had died, Kartik had been an absolute wreck of emotions instead of a prince who resigned to take his father’s throne. He had dismissed all the servants who were supposed to get him ready for the ceremony and in a fit of nervous wrath, he had completely bungled the intricate layers and jewelry. It had only worked him up to greater rage and he had started pulling viciously at his attire. 

It was then that Qabid had come in to find Kartik red-faced and weeping with anger and frustration. After calming him down, Qabid had helped him undress and redo the layers and placed the jewelry properly so that in the end Kartik had gone into the throne room, a king in name and in dress.

Qabid did the same now helping Kartik undress. He did not have to do it, Kartik had no problem in taking off the trousers and the simple shirt, but he let Qabid do it anyway. It felt like something a father would do for a son, and Kartik’s father was long gone, along with all the love he may have held. So he savoured this moment with Qabid, it may not come again. 

Using the water from a pitcher Kartik washed his face and rubbed away any grime that may have built up during his trip to the temple. Finally, the layers, with all their intricate lacings and jewelry, and heavy shiny embroidery were on his body. Qabid now placed the silver and ruby Kalgi at the centre of his scarlet turban.

Kartik chanced to glimpse himself in the polish mirror at the corner of his opulent tent. He looked kingly in all the heavy red and silver regalia. He was glad for the cold weather, trying to conduct a meeting in the stifling summer heat in these clothes would have been a nightmare.

“Qabid,” he said, studying himself. “I look like a glittering wound.”

Qabid smiled at him again, “You are lucky to have a physician, then, to tend to you.”

Kartik could not help it, he stepped forward and embraced the old man with all the energy and affection he could muster.

~~~

Aman had not slept. He spent the rest of the night thinking about Amitabh, replaying every moment, savouring it before it all disappeared, before he came face to face with his father’s killer. 

When the sun finally rose a servant came in carrying the clothes he was supposed to wear. 

“Leave it on the chair,” said Aman. “I’ll do it myself.”

The servant did as instructed and left. Aman got off the mattress and went to examine the clothing. The blue and gold clothing was ceremonial, heavily embroidered, with numerous pieces of gold and sapphire jewelry to go with it. 

He knew it would take a while to get it all on so he started the process of undressing and working through the numerous layers and lacing. As he dressed he could not help but think of Amitabh, he could not forget the way their fingers met, the memory of them seemed to scorch and brand the very flesh they had touched. What would Amitabh do if he realised Aman was King?

He dispelled these thoughts from his mind and focused on trying to get his clothing in order.

Finally, having dressed, as Aman was trying to affix his kalgi to his blue turban, and failing miserably at it, he heard the flap of his tent open. He turned to see Rajini enter, dressed too in blue and gold finery, looking at him quizzically.

“Why on earth are you smiling?” she sounded shocked, scandalised even, but happiness seems to underlie those emotions.

Aman realised that his mouth was in fact fixed into a wide grin. He bit his lip and tried to look more sober, taking on a serious facade, but much like trying to put on his kalgi he failed at even that. 

“Am I not allowed to smile?” he asked her, it came out playful, which brought a smile on Rajini’s own features.

“Forgive me,” she said. “You haven’t smiled like that in ten years. What happened?”

“I was praying,” he said, it was not far from the truth.

“Of course,” said Rajini, in a tone that meant she did not believe him, and if she did not have more pressing matters at hand she would have questioned him incessantly. “I came to tell you that everyone is ready for the procession to the temple.”

“Yes I’ll be there, I just need to-”

Rajini looked at the sapphire and gold kalgi in his hand and sighed. “You were always terrible with your kalgis. It is not like they are some complex contraptions, here let me help.”

Sheepishly he handed it over to her. Rajini, laughing, took it from him and with great ease and efficiency pinning it to the center of his turban, before fixing the sapphire laden gold threads artfully on the sides.

“There,” she said smoothing out his turban for the last time. “All done.”

“I’m glad they don’t make kings put on their own kalgis during the coronation,” Aman muttered, remembering, gratefully how his mother had done it for him, as was traditional.

“On the other hand,” said Rajini. “I am disappointed they don’t, it would have added humour to an otherwise boring ceremony.”

“That’s it. I’m revoking your title of Commander-in-Chief,” said Aman, with mock seriousness.

“I would like to see you try.”

At that Aman laughed, Rajini at first startled by this sudden burst of mirth laughed with him. It was sweet, so sweet to laugh freely, without any other emotion clouding his joy. For a moment he had forgotten everything.

“We should go,” said Rajini after a while. “Everyone is waiting.”

There it was again, the heavy weight that he had known all his life, the weight that had lifted momentarily while meeting Amitabh. It descended again on his shoulders. Familiar, unpleasant and dead. He hated it as much as he sought comfort in it.

He was to meet the King who killed his father. He was to forge an alliance with him and then somehow break out of that alliance and kill him.

Aman followed her out of the tent and made his way to where Keshav was standing holding the reins of the magnificent white stallion that had been a gift of sorts from Akhtar. Aman had taken to calling the stallion Sapir and despite himself had grown fond of it during their week’s journey to Balkar.

“You took your time,” remarked Keshav handing him the reins.

“Shut up Keshav,” said Rajini. “Our cousin is in love, give him a break.”

Indignant Aman took the reins from Keshav and narrowed his eyes at her “I am not.”

“You have been smiling like an idiot all morning, what else could it be.” Rajini retorted, before Aman could answer her, she left to get on her own horse.

Aman turned to Sapir and lifted himself to the horse's saddle, settling into it with the easy erect posture that had been drilled into him as a child. Thus he rode to the head of the procession.

Aman’s eyes turned to the East of the village of Kashatr, where he knew the Akhtari were camped. Even from this distance he could see them also standing, ready to start the procession. Aman wondered if Amitabh was there, he wondered if he would be able to see that man again. But those thoughts were dispelled when he saw a figure on a chestnut horse, who much like Aman, was riding through the procession making its way to the front.

The figure was too far away for Aman to truly make him out, but judging from his glittering red and silver clothing, clothing almost as magnificent as his own, and the familiar sight of the chestnut mare, Aman could only guess that it was Kartik Singh, King of Akhtar.

Aman turned towards the front and urged his horse to go faster. 

Once at the head of the procession, waiting for Rajini and Keshav to catch up with him, Aman turned his eyes once again to the rival procession. The other king too stood at the end, waiting. Though he could not tell Aman had a sudden uneasy feeling that Kartik’s eyes were also on him.

“Shall we go then?” asked Keshav, he and Rajini had finally caught up to Aman, they were waiting for him to take the first step.

Aman did not answer them but instead urged his horse forward into a slow canter. The procession followed him. 

He did not look towards the figure of Kartik Singh again. Not for the whole ride up the hill. 

He kept his eyes on his destination, the Okhine temple and he kept his mind on Amitabh, the feeling of his hands and the beauty of his smile. He did not want to make out who his father’s killer was in slow glimpses as both of them raced up the hill. He did not want to see the man until he absolutely had to. For a little while he wanted to live in a world where Kartik Singh was not yet flesh and blood, but a figment of his imagination.

Even as the two processions filed into the courtyard, Aman kept his eyes firmly on the high priest and priestess who, clad in flowing robes of black, stood at the front steps of the temple. 

Aman reined his horse in stopping just at the bottom of the steps that led into the temple. When Sapir was calm beneath him, Aman leaped off. He stroked the stallion’s neck, once, twice, three times. Then he took in a deep breath. _It’s now or never._

Aman turned to face the other King and in that moment he could have sworn that his heart had stilled completely, along with every muscle, every nerve in his body. 

He felt...betrayed. 

He was not sure why, but he did. The betrayal, palpable and as bitter as unripe mangoes. It was a ridiculous reaction. For there to be betrayal there had to be trust somewhere there, and Aman had sworn he would never trust the man that stood before him, never in his life.

For despite the glimmering, pompous, red and silver regalia and the now trimmed and brushed hair and beard, despite everything, the man before Aman was no other than…

“Hello Chandravadan,” came the low musical voice that he had once prayed to hear again. 

It seemed the gods had seen fit to heed his prayers in the most bitter and ironic of fashions, as they always did.

Aman looked at the other man in the eye, his answer came out as sharp and as steely as a newly forged sword:

“Amitabh.”


	15. The Round Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Mehan for helping me crack some lit dialogue at the end :) Also special thanks to Dhyan for inspiring me to write more Rajini Kartik moments.

Have you ever seen an eagle fly

Or heard a lion’s roar?

Have ever known life my love

Or do you only think of war?

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Kartik could not believe his luck. Here before him was the very man who had given him hope and comfort. The very man he had resolved he would seek out today after the meeting. Their words, the false names, had echoed throughout the courtyard, spilled out into the ears of everyone present. He could hear the confusion. He could practically taste the wandering thoughts.

Kartik opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything, Chandrav- no Aman’s eyes swept over him once, coldly and without emotions, before he turned his heel and walked up the steps to the entrance of the temple. 

For a moment Kartik was rooted to the ground, watching Aman, stunned by his coldness. _What have I done wrong?_ He asked himself. _You killed his father._ A voice whispered back. 

Kartik straightened his back, mustering his composure, he followed after the other man, towards the imposing figures of the priest and priestess. He did not have to look back to know the advisors, both his and Aman’s, were following them. 

Aman was already kneeling before the priest and priestess by the time Kartik had caught up so Kartik knelt beside him, for as the old saying goes even kings must bow before the will of the gods. 

The priest, a tall dark slim man, of twenty-five or so years approached, by his side stood a slightly older woman, with greying hair. They wore the clothing of the followers of Okhine, a long sheet of black dyed cloth, bound around their waist, and then pinned at their shoulders, with carved bone clasps. They wore no other adornment or jewels, and somehow that made them look more imposing. 

“We welcome you Kings of Kings, to the temple of Okhine.” said the priest in Akhtari. The priestess repeated the phrase in Mahanite. 

Kartik felt himself about to protest, he was a noble and so was Aman, they knew each other's languages. But then he remembered the procession, the crowd gathered, watching, waiting on the fate of their nation. _This is for their benefit_ , he thought, _the languages, the procession, everything._ _Everything I am about to do is for their benefit_. 

“I am Ravi,” continued the man. “And this is Kyra. And as the representatives of the great Okhine we ask that first your kalgi’s be removed, then your turbans and your shoes. One wears no headdress in the presence of Okhine, for none is higher than him.”

Kyra repeated the phrase in Mahanite. After she was done the two kings proceeded to undo their kalgis. In a deft practised motion, Kartik undid the silver threads that were pinned to the side of his turban. He was about to unpin the ruby laden centre when he noticed a slight commotion from the corner of his eye. 

He turned to see Aman struggling with the sapphire center of his own kalgi. A part of Kartik wanted to laugh. _This man has been king in name for almost as long as I have and yet he struggles with his own kalgi?_ That part of him wanted to see him struggle, wanted to see his cool demeanor break. 

But there was another part of Kartik. The compassionate part. That part of him did not want Aman to lose face in front of all these people. 

Tentatively he reached and placed a hand on the other king’s shoulder, underneath all the jewelry and heavy embroidery, he felt his muscles tense. Aman turned to face him and before he could say or do anything, Kartik moved his hand to the centre of Aman’s kalgi and unpinned it for him. 

For the first time, Aman looked into Kartik’s eyes with an expression of muffled rage, confusion, gratitude, and embarrassment. Kartik placed the kalgi in Aman’s hands and using his eyes gestured to his own half undone one, hoping Aman would understand what it meant. He also hoped that Aman would not botch the unpinning. 

He watched as Aman took a deep breath, watched as the emotions that had been as clear as cut glass, melted away to steely determined nothingness. Aman reached out and unpinned Kartik’s kalgi. He then placed it in Kartik’s hand, completing the impromptu ritual that had helped him save face.  
  


Their fingers met briefly and so did their eyes. For a moment the memory of what happened last night in this very temple seemed to pass visibly through them, so visibly that it almost reflected in Aman’s eyes.

_I will not forget this_ Kartik had said to Aman the night before _I will remember till my dying day. I vow it._

Ravi, the High Priest, cleared his throat, urging them to make haste. The two moved away from each other and proceeded to take off their turbans and their shoes, handing the items to Ravi and Kyra. 

Kyra then made a gesture. A novice in grey robes approached and handed her a black iron goblet. 

“In ancient times,” said Ravi. “When two or more kings met they would drink the tears of Okhine. For tears are given in grief and ecstasy, so do the kings share the grief and ecstasy of the people.”

The tears of Okhine were nothing more than the water, dew collected in the early mornings from the petals of nightshade flowers, Okhine’s sacred flower, purified, distilled and prayed upon until it was wrought holy.

After Kyra had repeated the phrase in Mahanite, she came forward and handed the goblet to Aman first. Kartik awaited his own turn, staring steadily ahead. He wondered for a minute if the goblet was poisoned. It would not be the first time that the followers of Okhine had killed a king when the saw it fit to do so.

There was tale of a king, Ghazi, who had ruled the united Kingdoms of Mahan and Akhtar after Dilaram and Erhan’s death. Ghazi was a cruel man, crueler than his predecessors. The augurs at the Okhine temple had divined nothing but ill omens from his reign. So on his crowning the Okhine followers had presented him with The Tears of Okhine. Thinking it to be water, the king had drunk it. He had died only a few seconds later, as was Okhine’s will. 

The story had been passed down through the generations. To remind everyone that religion too could be a powerful political force. It would be perfect, to kill two kings, regain political control over both the regions and reinstate two kings and restore peace.

But Aman did not drop dead from drinking the water. Finally Kyra handed the same goblet to Kartik. He drank. The water tasted sweet on his tongue, cool and clean. Definitely not poisoned, he concluded. When he was finished he handed it back to her. 

“Rise and follow,” came the voice of Ravi. “Arrangements have been made for this meeting, under the statue of Okhine. We all pray that this will prove to be auspicious.”

_You and I both_ thought Kartik. 

The two kings rose in unison, along with their advisors and followed the high priest and priestess into the columned hall of the temple. 

The temple was still menacing in daylight. While night had given it an almost hellish beauty, the day had transformed it into a place that was sinister in its cool brightness. Even as they went into the statue room, the terrifying visage of Okhine had not lost macabre charm. If anything the light of the shining sun enhanced details, such as the blood dripping from his chest, and the almost sneer in his grief or ecstasy laden lips. 

Kartik had been so entranced by the statue that he had not noticed the arrangements that the priests had made until he heard the familiar voice of Vahi ring out.

“Welcome my Kings, forgive me for not being able to attend the welcoming ceremony, I am old and I no longer have the energy to wait through such tedious customs.” 

Kartik gave her a smile. Both he and Aman went forward to touch her feet and greet her, as one should greet elders. He had wondered where Vahi had been, he had, after all, requested that she be here. It was here he also noticed that she was sitting down at a large rounded table, unadorned, made of plain wood.

Kartik smiled, it was clever of the priests. A round table had many advantages but above all it ensured equality between the people who sat on it. It seemed the people of Balkar had no intention to favour any side, they had no intention of allowing any side to perceive a slight. 

Peace. That was what they wanted and they were ensuring it in every way they could.

“Do not stand there like stunned oxen,” said Vahi, with a hint of laughter. “Come sit. We have much to discuss.”

At the bidding of the village elder, the rest arranged themselves around the table with Aman and Kartik sitting opposite each other. Ravi and Kyra took their places on either side of Okhine. 

Here Kartik allowed himself to look at those Aman chose to advise him. On Aman’s right was a tall but thin young man, with a bookish look to him. On his left was a small but muscular woman, with a scar where her eye should have been.

The woman he recognised. Rajini Tripathi.

When he had killed Shankar in battle, he had not been able to register anything until he heard a shrill battle-hardened scream. He had looked up from the dead body of the king to see a woman cutting down soldiers left right and center in order to get to him. A primal instinct had told him to run. Though half-delirious and wholly in pain because of his shoulder wound, pride forced him to plant his feet on the ground and raise his sword to meet hers. 

It never did. 

He was pushed aside by his then Commander-In-Chief, Parmesh, who fought against Rajini. Kartik had not been able to see the rest of the battle, he had been taken away by one of his kings guards, did not remember much after that, only that he woke up in a clean bed with Qabid looking over him. 

He learned later that Parmesh had taken out her eye and she had killed him. Unable to trust anyone else in the cutthroat and degraded Akhtari court, he took the position of Commander-In-Chief himself. No one in Akhtar seemed to mind that. He was the boy king, the great warrior who had brought them peace in the end. What did it matter if he had control of the armies as well?

Rajini seemed to notice his thoughts and gave him a devilish grin.

“The last time we met was here in Balkar was it not?” she asked him. “You’ve grown.”

“And you too have grown fiercer it seems,” said Kartik politely, bowing his head in acknowledgment. “I see your eye is better.”

“And your army is still without its head,” said Rajini. “I seem to recall that I lopped it off.”

The loss of Parmesh still hurt but Kartik found it in him to smile “Not so, I _am_ the head of the army.”

Rajini raised her brows quizzically, in it Kartik sensed a sort of admiration, coming from the other woman. Aman seemed to have sensed it so he turned to Rajini and scowled at her. 

“Sorry” Rajini said to her cousin. “Were you two supposed to greet each other first. Is it some kingly tradition? I thought the ceremonies were dispensed with.”

“It seems,” came the calming voice of Parvaaz. “that introductions are in order.”

It was clear that Aman was not entirely willing to put the front foot forward. So Kartik started. 

“This is my Vizier, Devika,” he gestured towards her. “And this is Parvaaz, Head Librarian.”

Kartik expected more stony silence from Aman so he was surprised when the other king answered in polite, clipped tones.

“Rajini you know, my Commander-in-Chief,” he then gestured towards the tall thin man beside him. “Keshav my vizier.” 

Aman sat up straighter in his seat and held out a hand towards Keshav, who produced a cedar box. From it Aman produced the iron and ruby necklace. He held in his hand, playing with it as if it were a piece of fruit rather than a herald of war. He turned his steely eyes towards Kartik. He fixed him with his gaze, steady and stern.

“Explain this to me.” he said in Mahanite. 

Kartik felt anger rise within him. _He dare demand this of me?_ Kartik raged. _He may be king but so am I and I will make him remember._

Anticipating what Kartik was going to do, Devika had already placed the cedar box in front of Kartik. He opened it, took out the sapphire jeweled dagger, unsheathed it, and smiled sweetly at Aman.

“Then I suppose this does not warrant an explanation?” He studied the blade. “Am I to assume you are in love with me?”

Aman frowned “I could ask you the same question.”

“We can speak of love later,” came the voice of Devika. “We should discuss the matter at hand.” she turned to Aman. “Did you attack Kashatr?”

“No,” said Aman. “Did you?”

“No,” Kartik answered. “Meaning a third party is at play.”

“We suspected as much,” said Rajini. “The timing of these gifts as well as the circumstances of the attack itself…”

“Why did you want to meet?” asked Aman, interrupting his cousin, he was looking at Kartik again. “What does it matter if our countries go to war? It has been our way of life for centuries.”

“With a decade of peace,” answered Kartik. “I don’t know about you but I would rather my people keep that peace.”

Aman’s eyes narrowed at him, “How does that benefit you?”

“Benefit me?” Kartik asked he felt his voice rising. “Peace benefits _my_ people! It would benefit _yours_ too if you took the leisure to use your head.”

“Kartik…” Devika whispered in warning.

He was losing his temper he knew, it was ridiculous of him. But Aman’s behavior was beyond infuriating. No that was not right. He had dealt with men and women much more infuriating than the Mahanite king. It was the contrast. This was not the man at the temple, the man who had wiped away his tears, the man that had comforted him. 

Keshav cleared his throat “I think what my cousin means is what do you want from this meeting? Why are we here?”

“For peace,” said Kartik. “I thought that was clear enough.”

“And you want us to help you?” asked Goggle.

“We want to work together,” replied Parvaaz. “As allies.”

“Why?” asked Aman. “You are perfectly capable of finding out the third party on your own are you not? And so are we if we wish it.”

“This third party is dangerous,” said Kartik. “The way they planned this out is intricate, it requires a deal of patience. They need to be eliminated, and quickly, in order to stem the flow of any more damage. We may survive them, but what of the innocent people who will be caught in between?”

“ _Bache chari saap, makise ucharien._ ” said Aman, this time Akhtari. _Go to bed with the serpent you know rather than the serpent you don't,_ It was an old Akhtari phrase. Kartik wondered where Aman could have possibly read it. “Very well then what kind of alliance do you propose?”

Then suddenly there was laughter. The six of them, as well as the two followers of Okhine, to see Vahi chuckling, she up until now had been silent.

“This is by far the strangest proposal of marriage I have ever seen.” said the old woman. “And trust me I have seen many in my ninety years.”

Aman turned to Kartik now. “Marriage?”

Kartik opened his mouth to speak, but found he had no words. 

Luckily Parvaaz spoke for him. 

“Yes. The reaction of the people to these gifts are perfectly poised for a marriage. We thought it was ideal, we-”  
  


“Ideal?” Aman spat the word as if it were bitter gourd. “Do you know what you are asking? Do you know how much planning and logistics will go into it? If marriage is to take place what will become of our two countries? Will they remain two separate nations? Will we have to merge into one nation? We cannot live together, the Three Hundred Year War proved that.”

“It would be secure,” Parvaaz interrupted. “Combining the resources of both nations to make it into one powerful one. It would end the war, permanently, begin a new era. Marriage would also provide a good cover for finding out who this culprit is. You show a united front. You form an unbreakable bond. And what is more unbreakable than a marriage? Further, it will baffle our enemies. They will falter, blunder and they will be found out.”

“It is what the people want.” Kartik added quietly. 

“A man of the people,” said Aman mockingly. 

“So what if I am?”

“I don’t buy it.”

“You and I both know that that is not true.”

Once again the memory of their night together at this temple flickered throughout the room, so tangible that Kartik could feel all eyes were fixed on them, including those of the blind-folded god. 

_Why do you weep?..._ Aman had asked. _I weep for my people…_ Kartik had said _I weep for I do know not what will happen to them._

Aman stiffened at his words. His eyes flitted fervently across each and every person in the room. He looked like an animal cornered by a pack of wolves. 

“I believe,” said Vahi, giving them a secret smile. “This is a delicate matter, that the kings must discuss privately.”

She got up from the bench, Ravi and Kyra, who had been standing patiently by the statue, rushed forward and helped her up and out of the room. The others, giving the kings one final look, slowly followed after her. None of them wanted to leave them alone together, that much was clear. 

Kartik and Aman stood in the room, once again under the statue of the god. Kartik met Aman’s eyes and said:

“You know I meant it when I said I won’t forget what you did for me last night.”

It was the first time they had talked about. The first time either of them truly acknowledged it. 

Aman turned his eyes away from Kartik and swallowed “We are better off forgetting last night.”

“You know that neither of us can forget it.”

“I wish I could.”

“Why?”

When Aman looked at him this time, Kartik knew he should not have asked. Rage and indignation were barely contained in the other King’s otherwise placid features. 

“Do you not know?” he whispered. “You killed my father. I cannot forgive that. Never.”

Kartik lowered his eyes and tried to imagine what it would have been like for Aman. He must have been what? Eleven? He had probably worshipped the very ground his father walked on, like most boys at that age. He must have loved him. 

_Don’t you remember?_ Said a voice in his head. _You loved your father once too, before he turned into a monster._

He too in a way, had lost a beloved father. He too had felt that anger, the betrayal. The need to do something about it. It was fortunate- or perhaps unfortunate- that Aman had been able to direct that anger to a thirst for the blood, flesh and bone for another man.

_I have ruined his life._ Came a thought, unbidden, along with it came guilt. But no, he did not come here to fulfill or dissuade Aman’s vendetta. He was here for his people.

“I have said before that I will not apologize for it,” said Kartik. “What I did cannot be atoned for with words. But hear me now. Even a fool would say that marriage is the best option. It is the will of the people and the best way to keep them safe.”

Kartik ventured to look up at Aman again. The other man’s placid pretense had completely fallen, his features distilled to create the perfect picture of wrath. 

“You think I would bed the man who killed my father?”

“It need not be a real marriage,” said Kartik quickly. “It is Akhtar custom for a couple to be married for six months before they can be truly legally bound. Marry me for six months. Figure out this threat. Kill me if you must in the end of it. Your kingdom will be safe and you will get another kingdom in the process.”

Aman gave a start, his eyes bore into Kartik with renewed alacrity, as if he was seeing him for the first time. 

“You would really do that? For the sake of your people? Sacrifice your life. Give your kingdom up to me?”

“I trust you.” the words came out before Kartik could stop them. But once he said them, he knew them to be true. It may have been the truest thing he had said in his life.

For the first time, Aman laughed. It would have been a sweet sound had it not been encumbered with barbed mocking undertones.

“Here I am practically telling you I want you dead,” said Aman when the laughter died down. “And you still find it within you trust me.” Aman gave him a twisted ironic smile. “Maybe you _are_ in love with me.”

“I trust the man that was Chandravadan,” said Kartik. “The man who comforted me despite everything. He’s still there, I’ll warrant.”

“Had I known who you were I would have killed you.” Aman hissed. “Tears or no.”

“No you would not have.” 

“You sound so sure.”

“You are an honorable man,” said Kartik. “You would not profane this temple by shedding blood, especially the blood of a man unarmed and praying. You are far too compassionate for that.”

“How do you know?”

Kartik gave him a winning smile “Because you can end this conversation anytime you like. Yet here you are speaking to me.”

Kartik had the pleasure of seeing confusion passing momentarily over Aman’s features. He knew he was going to get nothing but stubborn silence in response so he continued speaking.

“You are here, just as I am, for our people. To keep them safe from this threat. Does that not show compassion?”

“Don’t think I would not kill you at any given chance.”

“I do not doubt it. I only ask that you wait. You’ve waited for ten years, you can wait six more months.”

Aman’s brows furrowed, and Kartik wondered at all the thoughts that were going on unsaid. _There must be constellations, universes, burning in his mind, all of them hell bent on revenge._

“Give me three days to consider.” was all Aman said before he walked out of the room.

~~~

Was listening to [Azeem O Shaan Shahenshah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ouBDeoG0fU) while writing the temple ritual.  
  



	16. Gold Flowers

Their eyes will forever deceive them

None will know, none will truly know

What had passed between us 

Between our eyes, our hands, our soul

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Devika continually wondered at what was happening between Kartik and Aman behind the closed door of the temple’s inner complex. From the lack of screaming, shouting, commotion, and noises usually associated with choking Devika assumed that they weren’t at each other’s throats. From time to time, she could hear a hiss or a low murmur. A word here and there. But other than that, nothing. 

Qabid had told her that Kartik had spent the night with some other man, as a way to release his nerves. The three of them, she, Qabid, and Parvaaz often exchanged such information about Kartik’s wellbeing, practically becoming his constant monitors. They did not want a repeat of the opium incident three years earlier. None of them could bear to see him like that again.

She had been happy. Kartik often worked himself into nervousness, especially with matters of state. She had been happy that the release had nought to do with opium, though the sleeping draught would have been preferable. 

She had been worried that Kartik had been very secretive of the identity of his lover. But she did not dwell much on it, she did not care for Kartik’s lovers as long as they did not hurt him. She, of all people, knew how big his heart truly was. It was a miracle really. Everything he had been through, should have tempered his heart to stone, but it had only served to make it bigger. And the bigger the heart the more room for barbs to snag and tear away, and leave him bleeding.

But now that she had a strong suspicion as to who this man was she was more worried than ever. She could not quite believe it, neither was she pleased. But it all made sense. 

Kartik spending the night -most likely unknowingly- with the Mahanite King explained why they either avoided each other or simply could not take their eyes off each other, why they had called each other Chandravadan, and Amitabh when they first met. False names.

_ You and I both know that’s not true.  _ Kartik had said to Aman, with a burning intimacy, almost as if he had known this man for years, rather than one night.

“Are you worried?” came a voice beside her.

Devika turned to see handsome young high priest, Ravi, address her. He had left Vahi’s side as they all waited for Kartik and Aman to finish speaking to each other of whatever ‘delicate’ matter was at play. The other woman, Rajini was deep in conversation with Kyra, while Keshav and Parvaaz had struck up a conversation on some obscure book she had never bothered to read. She considered Ravi’s question.

“He is my friend,” she said proudly. “And my king. Of course, I worry.”

“Forgive me,” said Ravi. “It was a stupid question to ask.”

For the first time, Devika truly looked at him. Gone was the imposing godly mysticism that had intimidated her from the distance. Up close was just another man, with a boyish dimpled sheepish smile.

“It’s alright,” she said, she could not help but smile back. “At least you had the courtesy ask. What do you think is going on inside?”

“I am not sure. My grandmother is convinced that a marriage will happen,” said Ravi. “She is convinced that nothing but good will come from this. I hope she is right.”

“Your grandmother?” Devika questioned. 

“I forget, you have not been with us for long,” said Ravi, he gestured to Vahi. “My grandmother.”

Vahi grinned up at them and mirrored Ravi's gesture “My favourite grandchild. And the youngest. Did you know when he was but five years old…”

“Please Grandmother not now,” said Ravi.

Vahi smiled up at Devika “Remind me to tell you later. It is rather embarrassing. I would not want him to lose face in the very place where he is a high priest.”

Devika’s smile grew wider as she saw that Ravi had gone red “I will keep that in mind.”

Before Ravi could protest, the door opened. The Mahanite king, Aman emerged, he did not look at her. Nor did he look at anyone else. 

“A decision will be made in three days,” he said curtly, he turned to Ravi and Kyra. “By your leave.”

It was clear he had no intention of actually taking their leave. Aman was about to walk towards the exit of the temple when he noticed Parvaz and Keshav next to each other, he narrowed his eyes. He said nought but his disapproval clouded the air like heavy grey choking smog. Aman kept walking ahead, followed closely by his two advisors.

Kartik finally emerged from the inner complex. He seemed beyond livid, but there was an expression in his eyes, as he watched the Mahanite king leave, that worried Devika. It was an expression mixed with exasperation, rage, and longing. Longing most of all. 

“Is everything okay?” asked Parvaaz walking up to Kartik.

“We will know in three days,” Kartik answered in a way that clearly meant he wanted to speak no further. 

Thus they trudged back to the Akhtari camp in silence. It was strange. No matter how he was feeling, Kartik always talked about it. Silence did not become Kartik very well, but he wore it today. Once they reached the camp. Parvaaz bid them a good evening and returned to his tent. 

Devika was about to follow suit but one look at Kartik’s haggard face convinced her otherwise. She stayed firmly at his side and walked with him to his opulent tent. She expected him to tell her to leave, but it was almost as if he had not noticed her presence. 

Even when they were both inside Kartik still had not noticed her. She stood patiently by the tent flap waiting, watching as he made his way to the small study table the servants had brought from Khorshid, opened the seal of a wine jar. He poured some into a fluted wine glass. This too worried Devika. 

It was not that Kartik did not drink. He did, he drank a lot but he did not do it often. He was the kind of man who could go for years without touching the stuff, but when he did he would drink it by the barrelful and would have to be carried to his bed. She knew him to drink at celebrations and parties. Never when he was stressed. 

Holding the wine glass in his hand, he sat on one of the chairs. It was then that he finally noted her presence.

“What do you want?” his voice came out strained.

“Did you sleep with the Mahanite King?”

He gave a start as if she had said something blasphemous, scandalous as if she had profaned the very gods themselves. She knew his answer before he said it.

“No, I did not.”

“Then why on earth does it seem like you have,” she saw him put the glass of wine down, she saw him stand up, and she pressed further. “Chandravadan? Amitabh? ‘You and I both know that’s not true’? And what of the hand touching? The way you stared into each other’s eyes? Would you like me to continue?”

“Do I answer these questions in order or-”

“Just tell me what’s going on!” when he did not answer she said. “Are you in love with him?”

“I am not sure.” Kartik’s brows furrowed, his eyes fell. “I am not sure I want to speak of it.”

Devika came forward, took his face in her hands and made him meet her eyes. 

“You do not have to tell me,” she said. “You do not have to tell me anything. I just need to know that you know what you are doing. I do not want to see you get hurt.”

His strained features were transformed by one of his brilliant smiles “You are a good friend Devika. Has anybody ever told you that?”   
  


“I don’t need to be told, I already know. Promise you will be careful with him.” she paused. “We should rescind the offer of marriage. I do not trust him”

“Do you think the state of my heart is more important than the safety of my people?” he asked her. “I would let him kill me, Devika, if I knew you along with everyone else would be safe. Besides, you may not trust him, but I do.”

“Why?”

“He is kind.”

“Yes so kind he almost bit his advisor’s - what was his name, Keshav’s head off for talking to Parvaaz.”

“You do not know him.”

“And you do?”

Kartik gave her a sardonic smile as an answer. There was silence before he finally said.

“Devi, if-” he paused as if considering whether he should say something. “If for some reason I am no longer here to keep things in order. Will you promise to look after the people, make sure they don’t see that kind of degradation that they saw under my father’s reign?”

“Of course, but-” A sudden thought occurred. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead, “Are you okay? Are you dying? Why did you not-”

Kartik caught her hand and laughed “I’m not dying. Well not yet anyway.”

Devika found she could not help it, she pulled him into a tight embrace and felt his arms too wrapping around her

“You owe him nothing,” she said firmly. “I’m not going to let you die. I am not going to let him kill you. I swear it.”

She felt his arms tighten around her. He did not speak for a long time, he only held her. The silence scaring her like nothing else could. When Kartik pulled away she found tear tracks at his cheeks but a smile at his lips. 

“I need to change out of these clothes Devi” said Kartik, looking down at the heavily embellished garments. “And you need to rest.”

“And you,” said Devika, extricating herself out of Kartik’s hold going to the table where the wine glass and jug were sitting. “Need to drink less wine.”

Before he could react she snatched the jug and the wine glass. She found herself smiling at Kartik’s half exasperated, half-amused, expletive-laden protests. She went out of his tent and drained the glass before pouring herself another one. 

~~~

“Do you think it is true?” asked Sunaina.

She was sitting with Kusum inside her tent, reworking the tapestry on the Battle of the Broken.

“What is true?” came Kusum’s reply. She however already knew where this was going.

“What the common folk are saying, that Aman would marry the other King. You saw what happened with the kalgis. The way this Kartik Singh looked at him, he looked at him like no unwedded god-fearing man should have.”

Kusum did in fact remember. She had been sitting in the procession standing beside Sunaina, watching the kings as the priests performed the welcoming rights. She did not know what emotions had passed between the two men, when their hands touched and their eyes met, other than that their emotions had been intense. 

She also remembered what they had called each other.  _ Chandravadan. Amitabh.  _ It could only mean they had somehow met before, met as Chandravadan and Amitabh. 

“You said so yourself,” Kusum said. “Aman hates him. I do not think it will come to that.”

Sunaina brows furrowed “Rajini said that he was not in his tent last night.”

Once again Kusum felt that familiar jolt that usually accompanied the sound of Rajini’s name. But she suppressed it.

“He was not?”

“Do you think they…”

“If they did, it would explain the names,” said Kusum quickly. 

She did not want to know what it meant for her plan, how Rakesh would react to it. 

“I had hoped he would marry you,” said Sunaina.

_ I know  _ Kusum thought.  _ I know I had hoped for it too. I still hope for it. _

“Marry  _ me _ ?” she asked feigning surprise. 

As if she had not been building up the old woman’s trust. As if she had not been carefully manipulating each and every interaction to perfectly charm Sunaina Tripathi into marrying her off to her only son.

Sunaina reached forward and placed her hand on Kusum’s cheek. There was affection in her eyes, in her touch, as real and as binding as the tapestry they were weaving. Kusum felt hot tears springing to her own eyes, she tried not to let them fall.

“You have become like a daughter to me,” she whispered. “You have become the light of my life in the last five years. I do not know what I would have done without you. I know I can probably never live up to your own mother but…”

“You  _ are _ like a mother to me,” Kusum said. “You are the only mother I remember.”

Try as she might, whenever Kusum tried to think of her real mother, the mother who had raised her, held her as a babe, the mother that had grown up in this very village, somehow her face always merged with that of Sunaina’s. That made the truth of this situation all the more painful to bear. 

Sunaina then took her hand away from her cheek and proceeded to take off one of the gold bangles off of her wrist. She had two of them, one on each wrist. Sunaina had told her the story. How these had been gifts from Shankar on their wedding day. They had been worn by all consorts of the all the Mahanite kings or queens. 

She placed this one in Kusum’s hand. 

“Take this,” said Sunaina. 

“I cannot,” 

“Take it,” Sunaina was insistent. “It’s a promise. Even if Aman does not marry you, you will always be my daughter.”

The tears that had been forming in Kusum’s eyes finally spilled out. She found her whole body had succumbed to the emotions of guilt and gratitude.  _ I do not deserve your love, not one ounce of it,  _ she wanted to scream. She wanted to come clean. For a moment, a terrifying, brilliant moment, she could feel the words that would reveal her deception at her tongue, but she swallowed them and let Sunaina embrace her and kiss her cheek. 

“Go and rest,” said Sunaina. “We have a long day tomorrow, the old woman Vahi wishes us to give a tour of the village.”

Kusum barely registered Sunaina’s words, barely registered her own response. All she could feel was the gold bangle digging into the palm of her hand. 

She was still clutching it when she arrived at the back of the temple where she and Rakesh had agreed to meet. He was as usual late. So she took the time to finally look at it. 

Before she had come to the Mahanite court, she was what most termed a jewel thief. The ring of Lord Acharya, the man whose daughter she claimed to be, was also stolen to aid in the deception. She knew her jewelry and she knew it well. And this gold bangle was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry she had seen. 

It was not gaudy, neither was it plain. It bore no other jewels, but the design was intricate and elegant, the gold wrought in the shape of twined leaves, branches, with seven blossoming flowers dispersed unevenly, yet not unpleasantly throughout the circlet. A wreath of gold. Kusum ventured to place it on her wrist. 

The bangle felt warm against her skin, it even looked like it belonged to her, as if it were made for her wrist. 

_ I cannot do this anymore.  _ She thought to herself. 

“A gift from Aman I hope,” she looked up to see Rakesh. He was dressed in the blue and gold livery of a palace guard. She had not seen him the whole journey here. They had agreed it would have been too dangerous to meet until they reached the village.

“From his mother,” she replied. 

“That is well enough I suppose,” he said diffidently, he sat down beside her. “I do not think it will be enough.”

“What makes you say that?” 

“Were you not there in the crowd?” he asked, his voice sharpened by annoyance. “Every guard was talking about it in the tavern today. Some bard even made a song about it. ‘Two Kings’ they call it. They should have called it ‘The Kings who Fucked’.”

She wanted to know how the song went. But the edge in his voice told her it was most likely not the best idea to ask.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he demanded. “This is your fault. You should have enchanted him earlier. A woman uglier and coarser than you could have done in a year what you couldn’t have in five.”

“My fault?” she raged. “My fault? I have duped the whole court and clawed my way to Sunaina’s favour while you have most likely been drinking and whoring your nights away. Tell me how many women have you slept with while I wasn’t there-”

She did not really know what happened next. Only that she found she was on her back unable to breathe. Rakesh’s face loomed over her, his hands tight around her neck. 

“First you tell me,” he hissed. “How many men and women have you let into  _ your _ bed? How many? Tell me? You’re living a pampered life while I toil in the dregs and soiled corners of the streets.”

His grip only got tighter.

“You are an ungrateful pampered bitch, I should have left you for dead, where I first saw you abandoned on the road.”

He did not let go and for a wild moment, Kusum thought he would kill her. 

_ It would make for a pretty picture  _ she thought bitterly. _ In my red dress and the gold bangle, my face as black as a bruise splayed across the steps of the temple. _

But then, finally, when she felt herself slipping away, the heaviness of his hands at her throat lifted leaving her raw.  _ There will be bruises there come the morning.  _ And finally, she breathed. She had not truly known how precious air was until this very moment. The darkness that had come into her vision slipped away, crept back as if it had not been there in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He sounded like he meant it. “I lost my temper, it must have been hard for you. But you must understand it is just as hard for me.” He smiled. “How is it like being back in Kashatr?”

The words were like a kiss on the cheeks of a child left stinging and red by a slap. It was not enough to heal the pain. But they felt cool and pleasurable. 

“I feel nothing,” she said. 

It was not true. She had felt the beginnings of something. Old memories and emotions threatening to rise and consume her. But she had been pretending for so long, it became almost easy to start pretending to herself. Easy to suppress and constrain who she truly was. But she was not going to tell Rakesh that.

The night passed and the bruises bloomed at her neck, and with it grew the steady realisation that for a moment her life had not been her own but completely in the hands of another. She had been powerless.

_ Never again _ . She promised, touching the tender spots at her neck. She could do that much for herself at least.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really rename this chapter 'everyone thought they fondued but really all they did was hold hands and touch each other's faces'


	17. Mother Tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lads sorry I was late with this update, had some important irl stuff. Anyway I hope this was worth the wait. The sunflower bit is dedicated to Dhyan, for helping me come up with it. And the final bit is dedicated to Mehan my linguistics nerd, who's contribution to this fic I value more than anything.

‘I have two mothers, two tongues’

Thundered the land of Balkar

‘Their music will burn through centuries

Like the death of a burning star’

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

In the early hours of the morning, Sunaina Tripathi stole into her son’s ten like a common thief, an assassin. He was sound asleep when she came in, the candle by his cot burning low, illuminating his face. In this light, he looked almost sweet, so sweet that even with his beard, he looked like a little boy. She briefly wondered what he was dreaming about. 

Sunaina reached forward and ran her fingers through his dark hair. She could not remember the last time she had done this. He must have been a child then. It must have been before Shankar died. 

His eyes fluttered open at her touch and he regarded her quizzically. He always was a light sleeper, this did not surprise her.

“Mother?” he managed to groan out. He sat up in his cot. “Is everything okay? Did-”

“Everything is fine,” she said. “I only wanted to speak with you. You should rest. I am sorry I disturbed your sleep.”

She went to leave but Aman held her wrist and drew her back. He studied her once. It was not often to see his emotions coursing through his face unchecked and unguarded. 

“Stay,” he said simply. “What did you want to talk about?”

Sunaina sat back down beside him. “Tell me first, is everything okay? I did not see you the whole day after your talk with the Akhtari King.”

“I’m not sure Ma,” he said quietly. 

_ Ma.  _

How long had it been since he had called her that, instead of the formal Mother? Sunaina held on his hand, half afraid he would let go.

“Tell me then,” she said. “You used to tell me everything when you were a boy.”

Aman’s expression darkened and for a moment she thought he would drive her away. But he held her hand fast and said.

“I am not sure what to do anymore,” he said. “All my life, I’ve wanted to…” he paused, stiffened a little as if refraining from talking further. “Ma, you have heard the rumours. What do you think is the best course of action?”

“I have heard rumours that you may have…” she paused unsure how to word it properly. “That you and the other king may have met and...well…”

Aman did not meet her eye this time, he did not even deign to answer her.  _ Did they meet as lovers then?  _

“I meant the rumours of marriage,” said Aman quietly after a while. 

“Do you mean to say that he  _ has _ put forward an offer of marriage?”

“Yes,” said Aman. “You are quite good in the area of arranging marriages. You have a mind for politics in that sense.”

Sunaina pondered on this, her mind swiftly going through the possibilities that this marriage could provide. It would be complicated, but not impossible.

Somehow it would mean that the two kingdoms will once again be joined. Marriage would mean the combining of resources. Unity and peace. At least in theory. 

Practically speaking they would need to sort out the logistics. Where would they live? Which city will be the capital? Which titles belonged to who? What will be the new emblem, the new sigil of the combined nations? What will they call this combined nation? And what of the difference between languages and customs? How will they deal with the centuries of hatred, warfare and ignorance that would pit the people against each other? There was also another thought that nagged Sunaina.

“There will be the problem of heirs,” said Sunaina. “You know that an heir made in a marriage bed is indisputable.”

“There are other ways mother,” said Aman. “Like the way Queen Liyah came to the throne after the Queens Samira and Zainab.”

Thousands of years ago the Queen Samira had fallen in love with one of her Ladies-in-Waiting, Zainab. In those times no matter what one’s personal preference, the royal marriages were more often than not between men and women, especially if an heir was to be produced from it, as in the case of kings and queens. However, the love of Samira and Zainab was so formidable that they had defied all custom and had married. When the time came for Samira to produce an heir, she announced that no man will touch her body, not even to give her child.

The two queens had then been visited by the priests and priestesses of Okhine had ordained that because of their great love the god had granted them a daughter, a novice of Okhine, Liyah. The practice became known as the Child of God, royal couples who could not conceive children of their own body, were granted an heir by the temple. 

The concept in theory was a good one, but there were still those who believed in bloodline. More than half of these Children of God had been slaughtered by greedy and ambitious cousins.

“I know you want me to marry Kusum,” Aman continued. “But the truth is I can never be happy with a woman, no matter how beautiful, brave or kind.”

“Will you be happy with Kartik Singh though?” she asked him.

“The happiness of my people outweighs my own does it not?” he asked her. “But what of father? If I marry Kartik-what would father say?”

“Your father is dead,” said Sunaina firmly. “He can do nothing. He can say nothing. We do not know what he would have wanted.”

“You almost sound like you want me to marry him.” he looked at her quizzically. “Do you?”

She was not sure. She did not know Kartik Singh well enough. Yes, there had been a time when she too had wanted him dead. But now… 

The memories came back, along with the ache in her heart. The one she had tried to dull for ten years. When Kartik had killed Shankar he had left her with a broken family. How many more families will suffer what she had if an alliance failed and war came about. The gods knew they had suffered enough.

“If you do not marry him,” she said quietly. “There will be war, I do not know how long it will take, but one way or another, it will happen. The country will be burying dead bodies again. Those bodies will be fathers, mothers, sons and daughters. ”

It seemed that his eyes were misting with tears, but Sunaina could not be too sure, her own vision had blurred. She continued speaking, hoping it would drive an arrow into his already vulnerable heart.

“I cannot say whether you should accept or not. I do not know myself, but ask yourself, Aman, is refusing this marriage worth another three centuries of pain. The pain that had brought you onto this path of vengeance. The pain that I went through.” she did not know how, but somehow she managed the courage to say the next words. “When your father died I did not only lose a husband, I lost a son as well.”

She did not hear his response. She did not wait to see his reaction. Weeping Sunaina left his tent, as she did she looked up at the dull early morning sky. 

_ If you can hear my prayers  _ she said to whichever god was listening.  _ Help him make the right decision. _

~~~

Rajini had decided to spend the day training instead of touring the village with Vahi and the kings. For once she wanted to get her mind off the politics that had dogged her the whole journey here, that weighed down on all of them. She did not want to watch as Aman and Kartik made barbed remarks at each other, every sentence laden with political significance, every word full of hidden meaning and potential slights, disguised under the veil of courtesy. 

Of course they would have to be courteous to each other in public. But with the memory of their meeting at the temple, Rajini wondered how they would manage even that. She had seen the way they had looked at each other, their eyes fervently searching the other’s face in disbelief, heard them say those false names, watched as their hands lingered during the rites of the temple when they undid each other’s kalgis. 

Aman could not pin or unpin kalgi on himself if his life depended on it. She had been both amused and grateful that Kartik had helped her cousin save face. 

But that moment had also inspired curiosity. There was a familiarity that should not have been there. That coupled with the fact that he was not in his tent when she had gone to see him the night before, made her almost believe the rumours that had spread across the village and both camps. 

They had met before certainly. But as lovers? She was not entirely sure. In spite of Aman’s cold demeanour, it was not a rare occurrence for him to take a lover. But on the eve of an important meeting? He would be more likely to be caught praying.

She found, despite herself, worrying about what Aman may do. For a man with a seemingly cool demeanour, he was overly ruled by emotions. And the fact that there was clearly something between him and the other king made Rajini want to head back and join the tour.

_ That is none of my concern  _ she thought to herself.  _ Aman is a man grown, he can handle himself. _

Swords, after all, were much simpler than politics. So were daggers for that matter. 

Rajini had taken herself to the middle of a forest clearing outside the village. It was a quiet, secluded place, where none would be likely to disturb here. She also liked the feel of it. She liked the bitter air, the smell of petrichor infused in the black earth, and the look of the trees. She felt like she was in the middle of an ancient grove where they once performed blood sacrifices.

She drew her sword and closed her eyes, calming herself, ridding her mind of all thoughts.

It was then she heard a noise from behind her. Rajini spun around pointing the sword at her assailant’s neck. It took her only a few seconds to register who it was.

“Kusum?” she asked, lowering her sword. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be with Aunt Sunaina on the village tour.”

Kusum was wearing dark riding leathers, a stark contrast to her usual cheerful dresses, with a scarf bound around her neck. It was a cold day, it was to be expected in autumn, but it was not so cold that one needed a scarf.

“Sunaina has taken to bed, she is not feeling well,” said Kusum. 

“How did you find me?” asked Rajini.

“It’s not hard once you think about it,” said Kusum, diffidently. “You were not there when the kings started to move through the village, though Keshav and the other advisors were. That meant you did not like to be disturbed, which also meant you would most likely be training. I noticed you were eyeing the clearing two days ago when we first got here. It’s a good place to train. Quiet and secluded, not too far from camp.”

Stunned Rajini gave her a quizzical look. She did not know why but she felt...pleased at the fact that Kusum had noted so much of her.

“You are quite observant.” she remarked.

Kusum smiled in answer, and Rajini watched as her cheeks turned red. For a moment Rajini wondered if she had something that had offended her. But no, Kusum was smiling, smiling like a child caught in the act of stealing sweets.

“I wanted to request…” her almost joyfully embarrassed expression became somber. “I wanted to ask...I...I want to learn how to fight. Properly.”

Rajini knew that she should direct Kusum to the master of arms when they got back to Chandan. She knew it was not really her duty anymore to train anyone. But something in Kusum’s voice made her relent. 

“Have you ever used a weapon?” asked Rajini, swinging her sword casually, but not without flair.

“Not really no,” 

“Well there are a range of weapons which you can learn to fight with. I-”

“I want to learn hand to hand combat,” said Kusum quickly. “And perhaps how to use a dagger.”

Rajini found herself smiling “It is not often that new trainees know exactly what they want.”

“So is that a yes?” asked Kusum. “Will you teach me?”

“Why not?” she then glanced at Kusum’s scarf. “You may want to take off the scarf. I tell you now I am no easy trainer. It may seem cold now but-”

“I have seen grown men go to their beds crying because of your training,” Kusum smiled. “I know what I am getting myself into.”

But Rajini noted that she still had not taken off her scarf. She decided not to press any further. 

“The first thing I tell my recruits is-” started Rajini. 

“That attack is the best form of defense?” finished off Kusum.

“You paid attention to my training sessions?”

It was not often that Kusum came to see the training sessions alongside Sunaina. Rajini did not think Kusum had any interest in them.

“I’ve memorised every word of your lecture,” Kusum bit her lips as if she had said something she was not supposed to.

“I suppose we could get straight into-” Rajini paused as she noted that the scarf had loosened and slipped somewhat at Kusum’s neck. The lovely lines and curves of her throat were marred with ugly bruises. They did not belong there. “What happened there?”

Kusum stiffened hastily redoing the scarf “It’s nothing, nothing at all.”

“It does not look like nothing,” something was wrong. Something had happened and Kusum was too afraid to tell her. Rajini felt rage course through her at the thought of someone harming Kusum. Kusum, sweet, lovely Kusum who had never harmed anyone in her life. “Who did this to you? I will kill them.”

“It’s nothing,” but there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. 

Rajini found she did not want to see her like this. She could not bear to see her tears.

“Kusum?” Rajini reached out and placed a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “No one should treat you like that. No one. Give me the name and I will behead them.”

“I would rather behead them myself,” said Kusum, with a viciousness that made Rajini almost smile. 

“You will need to learn how to use a sword for that,” said Rajini, she knew that Kusum did not want to dwell on the unpleasant memory. And while Rajini was itching to know what happened she respected the other woman’s unspoken wish. She offered Kusum her sword. “Here, show me how you think one should hold it.”

Kusum reached out and tentatively took the sword from her. She looked at it as if she had no idea what to do with, as if it was something holy. She almost dropped it..

“Pretend,” said Rajini. “That the man you want to kill is just before you. Imagine the look in his eyes, the fear. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He is at your mercy.”

When Kusum raised the sword this time, she did not falter. Her stance and her hold were far from perfect. But there was solidity there, a fierceness in her eyes that told Rajini, that whatever person she was imagining would surely be dead had they stood on the other end of the sword.

~~~

  
  


Try as he might Aman could not help but see his mother’s tears every time he closed his eyes. He could not help but hear her words.

_ I lost a son as well. _

It was all the more painful when his mother had absented herself from the tour. He knew somehow he had hurt her. She never absented herself from royal duties. Was it true then? Had he really become a shell of himself? Had vengeance truly taken him a path of destruction. He had never thought of his revenge as anything but a goal he must attain, a matter of the greatest honour, a way to fill in the hole his father’s absence had left.

There had been many times in his life when he had doubted this vengeance. But never more fervently that now.

To make matters worse Kartik Singh was constantly eyeing him as they walked with Vahi through the village. Aman knew exactly what was on his mind. For all his kingliness the other man wore his heart on his sleeve. And what did it read? Simply that he worried for the fate of his nation. He worried for his people. And he was worried that he had misplaced his trust. 

Aman found he could not hate him. Not as he used to.

He had always imagined Kartik as an ugly, fat, tyrannical despot. He had not expected a beautiful man with a resplendent smile. He had not expected a man with more kindness flowing through him than all of the rivers of Mahan and Akhtar combined. He had not expected him to be a man who he was capable of feeling affection for. 

For Kartik was right. The memory of their night together at the temple could not be erased. It was undeniable proof that everything Aman had thought was wrong.

_ Kindness or no he is still the man who killed my father, I cannot forget that. I cannot. _

Aman could feel Kartik’s eyes on him again as Vahi talked about the history of the village square and all the village elders before her. He turned and met his gaze with a steady unflinching one of his own. They stood like that for a few seconds before Kartik tore his eyes away from him and Aman tried to focus on what Vahi was trying to tell them. 

“Ah,” said Vahi. “This would be the time for the children to come and learn their letters. Perhaps you would like to sit and watch.”

“I would be honoured,” said Kartik smiling. 

“So would I,” said Aman, exasperated at the fact that Kartik had managed to give an answer before he did. 

Vahi invited them to sit under the poplar tree in the middle of the village square. Aman watched as slowly the children started filing in. Some of them stole glances at the figures of the kings, the advisors and their village else sitting under the poplar tree. Some of the older ones whispered amongst themselves. But, the others, the ones who were too young understand the difference between a beggar and a king, were too busy playing amongst themselves to even notice the newcomers. 

Finally a small, portly, middle-aged man entered the village square. His bald head shone proudly under the mid-morning sun. His features were round and jolly. As soon as his presence was noted the children sat with rapt attention, quickly taking out their chalks and slates. The man stood at the front of all of them.

“That is Usman he is the most learned in this village, he managed to attend the universities in both Chandan and Khorshid,” whispered Vahi as Usman greeted the students in both Akhtari and Mahanite.

When Usman was done with the greetings and started with his lesson at first Aman could not make out what he was saying. Some of the words were Mahanite, but the others…

They were Akhtari. He realised. The more he listened the more he understood what he was hearing. A language, but not just any language. A language that was a seamless blend of Mahanite and Akhtari. 

Slowly but surely Aman was able to make out the words, construct them into sentences. Slowly he was able to understand what the teacher was saying.

“Today,” Usman said, still in that strange mixed language. “We have some very special guests among us. I am sure you have heard of the Kings Aman and Kartik-”

Before Usman could continue, however, a little boy of about four or five spoke up. He directed his attention towards Kartik. 

“Is it true that you fought in your first battle when you were nine and killed ten thousand men.”

“Osahar!” reprimanded Usman. “Do not speak unless you are asked to. If you must speak, speak Akhtari when addressing the Akhtari king, like a civilized boy. The King will not understand your mixed gibberish.”

Aman turned to Kartik and saw a pain flicker through features at the mention of the Battle of the Broken Will, he saw his posture stiffen and he saw him venturing to position his shoulder awkwardly. But his smile was indulgent.

“I can quite understand him, Usman. Though I am afraid my response will have to be in Akhtari. I am not very well versed in...uh...” 

“Balkari,” Vahi whispered in his ear.

“In Balkari,” Kartik finished turning his attention to Osahar. “I was fourteen actually, I was injured very badly. I only killed one man before I was taken away.”

_ And that man happened to be my father _ . Aman thought bitterly. But he said nought. The boy Osahar pondered over this new information, his mouth opened to propel more questions but Usman was prepared.

“You will have the leisure to ask the kings questions later, if they want them.”

“We will be glad of it,” said Aman before anyone else could say anything. 

Usman nodded "For now we will proceed with learning the next few letters of the alphabet.”

Thus the lesson started and Aman watched on in awe. Despite seven hundred years of separation and almost three hundred years of war, despite the gradual separation of language, the script for both Akhtari and Mahanite had miraculously stayed the same. He found himself smiling as he compared it to his own education. 

He himself had only had tutors, and different ones at that. He never had the opportunity to work with other children, learning in unison with them. Somehow he found that he preferred this method. There was something here, something sweeter almost like camaraderie. 

The lesson on letters ended after an hour, Usman allowed the children to have a break, by which they all clamoured towards the poplar tree where the kings were sitting. They came with their questions in a thousandfold. Most of these questions, Aman noted and not without a hint of jealousy, were directed towards Kartik. 

But not how could they not? Kartik was the boy king, the hero of Akhtar. He had actually fought in a battle. He, Aman had to admit, even looked like someone straight out of legend. And Aman? He had not seen battle, he was a newly crowned king, and his achievements if he had any, were most likely to bore the children than excite them.

Aman watched as Kartik was slowly drawn into a game of knucklebone with some of the children. Aman leaned against the poplar tree and looked on with a wry half-smile as the other king good-naturedly teased them as if he were half a child himself.

It was then that he saw a young girl sitting at the edge of the group looking on at them mournfully. Aman’s smile fell away. He got up from his spot beside the Vahi and went to her. He may be king, he may have once been a prince, but he too knew loneliness. He knew what it was like to have the other children exclude you from their jests and games. 

She could not have been more than nine years old. Aman knelt beside her.

“Why do you not play with the others little one?” he asked in Mahanite, adding in a few Akhtari words that he had picked up and found was in common usage in the Balkari tongue. 

When she looked up at him, Aman understood. Her features, though pretty, were heavily scarred with pockmarks. The poor child must have caught it when she was but a baby. He found that his heart grew with more affection for it.

“They do not like me,” she said with the characteristic honesty of any child of nine. “They call me Spotty-Sarai, they say I will give them pockmarks if I touch them.” 

“Sarai,” muttered Aman. “That’s a pretty name. It suits you.”

“You’re just saying that.” 

Aman found her tone disconcerting. It sounded far too adult. Far too depressed for a girl her age. 

“I am king,” said Aman. “And kings do not ‘just say’ things, Sarai, surely you know that.”

“You’re wrong,” said Sarai defiantly. “Ma told me a story about a King who talked nothing but nonsense.”

“What happened to him?” he asked indulgently.

“His mouth was sewn shut by his own Queen.”

“Is my mouth sewn shut?” he asked with a half-smile.

“You don’t have a Queen.”

_ This girl argues as well as Uncle Chaman did in his prime.  _ He thought. He imagined what it would be like to set her against Kaali, it served to wide his smile.

“I intend to never have a Queen,” he told her.

“A king?” asked Sarai. “Da says you might marry the other king. Will you?”

Her large dark eyes looked up at him and he found he could find no words to answer her, not properly. He thought about what his mother said. 

_ How many innocents like her will be caught in between if I refuse to marry Kartik? _

_ Too many.  _ Came the answer, all too readily.

“I cannot tell you that,” he said. 

“Is it a state secret?” she asked. 

“Of a sort,” Aman admitted.

“I think he likes you,” said Sarai.

Aman gave a start “What makes you say that?”

“He is looking at you right now.”

Indeed when Aman turned to look at the game of knucklebones, his eyes met Kartik’s, and this time the Akhtari king did not look away, his expression was carefree, wistful, and somewhat delighted. As if he had opened a box and was pleasantly surprised at the contents.

“Do you like him?” asked Aman, tearing his eyes away from him. “Do you think he is good?”

Sarai looked up at and for the first time Aman saw her smile. It was a sweet smile, transforming her face, giving it such a radiant beauty that one could almost forget the pockmarks.

“I like you better.”

  
  



	18. The Price of Peace

In the light of the wild flame

They will sing they will dance

Goddess of life and love, you dare

Leave the fate of our nations to chance

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

After the tour, Vahi invited them all to attend the annual Harvest Festival. 

“You would do us great honour,” Vahi had told them. “It is not often that we are blessed with a royal presence.”

Both kings had relented. And so it came to this, Kartik sitting at Vahi’s right while Aman sat at her left. They were perhaps the only somber ones in this festival. Even their advisors, who it seemed usually shared in their sorrows, were cheerful. 

Kartik had noted that Parvaaz and Keshav were sitting by one another, they had even brought and exchanged books here, engaging in what seemed like a lively debate. Devika was speaking and drinking with the high priest, Ravi. While Rajini was speaking with a middle-aged woman in rich clothing, this Kartik assumed was Aman’s mother Sunaina, she was also speaking with another younger woman, with a sweet cheerful face and a bright smile.

The festival had not started yet. They were waiting for the last rays of the setting sun. By which Ravi and Kyra would light a bonfire in the middle of the village square, in honour of Shamsheer, goddess of life, love, earth, and flame. Much like Okhine she was a prominent goddess in both Akhtar and Mahan, she was responsible, they say for giving good harvest and thus the autumn festival was held in honour of her, thanking her for her boon.

“How does one celebrate this in Akhtar?” asked Vahi, leaning over to Kartik. 

“A fire is lit,” he said. “And the people dance and sing about the flames until it goes out. They say Shamsheer loves music.”

Vahi smiled and turned to Aman. “And in Mahan?”  
  


“A fire is lit as always,” he said. “However every household makes sweets, they throw a portion of it into the flames in honour of the goddess.”

Vahi smiled and said nothing more. Kartik found himself looking at Aman once again. He he had been doing that a lot today, trying to gauge the other man’s emotions, his thoughts, and eventually his decision. But that beautiful stern face was as guarded as ever. 

Kartik remembered then how while he was playing knucklebones with the other children he had looked up to see Aman talking and laughing with a young pockmarked girl who the others had excluded and who, Kartik had to admit rather guiltily, he had not noticed until that moment. 

He did not know why but he had felt a certain pleasure seeing that. Aman had smiled, carefree, and without the guarded sobriety that he usually sported and it had reminded Kartik of how Aman had held his hand, his face, comforted him and wiped away his tears. It reminded him of how he had given him hope.

_You do not know your power, you are there, like a godsend_ he had thought _for those who think they have no hope. Let not this vengeance claim you wholly._

The sun had finally set so Ravi and Kyra came forward to the large pile of wood stacked in the middle of the square. They each held a torch. They sang the hymns to Shamsheer in both languages before they lowered their torches. 

In a sudden flash of amber light, the pile of wood was transformed into a great sputtering flame that danced wildly with the wind. Kartik heard the children scream with delight as the gathered villagers clapped.

But it was not the spontaneous smattering of claps usually associated with a great performance. No. The clapping was rhythmic, musical, reverberating like a beating heart throughout the square. Kartik found himself joining, knowing it would be remiss of him not to. He turned to see Aman was doing the same.

The clapping got faster and with it, someone had taken up a pipe and was playing a merry tune. Then came the people. They came forward, the old and young alike, their hands brimming with sweets and nuts. With great flourish, they took turns to toss them into the flames. 

The custom was Mahanite.

As soon as they did so they formed a ring around the bonfire and started to sing and dance to the tune of the music. The movements were not practiced, nor were they in unison. They were as wild and spontaneous like flames, and much like the flames, there was a beauty and power to them that could not be denied.

The custom was Akhtari.

“In Balkar,” said Vahi quietly. “We must give Shamsheer the offerings of sweets then we must sing and dance and make merriment. Nothing pleases her more than good food and good music.”

Kartik could not help but smile. So this was Balkar. It was neither Mahanite or Akhtari. It was both. Here Kartik saw all his dreams of peace and harmony encapsulated in this small village that lay in the middle of both nations. Peace was possible.

_If only_ he thought, his eyes finding themselves on Aman again. _If only this other king has the sense to agree._

He felt his smile fall at that, the old fear rising again. Could he fight another war if it came down to it?

“Do not look so gloomy,” Kartik looked up to the source of the voice, onlu to see Devika standing over him. Her lips were curled into a brazen smile she reached out and took his hand “Come,” 

“Devi no I-”

“I am not taking no for an answer.”

He was much stronger than she was, he knew he could simply sit and she would not be able to lift him from the ground no matter how hard she tried. But he found himself getting up. There was a burn, an ache, a desire, to join the merriment, to join the dancers around the fire. And so he did.

~~~

Aman sat by Vahi, awed by the spectacle he had just come to witness. Here was a seamless binding of the two very different cultures. Different traditions, rites, all blended into one. 

_We cannot live together_ Aman had said as they took council under the statue of Okhine. But here was undeniable evidence that they could.

“You should dance with all the others,” suggested Vahi. “You are not old as I. You have no aching bones.”

Aman turned to the ring of dancers, glistening amber figures moving in time with the lively music. One figure, in particular, seemed to command his attention, indeed seemed to command his attention of all around him. Kartik’s dancing was as carefree as his brilliant smile, none could deny there was a power and grace in his every movement. 

“I am not fond of dancing,” he told Vahi. 

“You mean you are not fond of the Akhtari King,”

Aman turned to her startled. “I thought that…”

“I am ninety years old, my king,” she said. “I would think it strange if you did not hate him. He killed your father did he not?”

“But the people?” asked Aman. “Everyone seems to think we will marry.”

Vahi sighed, looking at the people in question. “We are simple people. Truth be told, our lands have been exchanged between these two nations for so long we do not know where our allegiances lie anymore. We are loyal to those who take care of us, those who provide for us, which both of you have done. Our pasts do not matter. Three hundred years of war had taught us to value what we have here, this.” she gestured to the laughing dancing crowd. “Peace, love, and laughter, it is all we have. That is why the people are ready to believe in this marriage. We would like to see the peace remain.”

Aman found he could not answer her. He pondered on her words. _If I refuse, there will be war again. Even if I forswear my vengeance, the next generation may take up arms and the slaughter will resume. Could I do that to these people, these people who hope?_

_He killed your father_ another voice whispered _where is your pride?_

It was then Aman looked up to see the tiny figure of Sarai approaching. When she noticed his gaze smiled up at him shyly. He could not help but smile back.

“You look very pretty tonight,” Aman said once she was near.

“You are just saying that,”

“It seems to me that is a favourite phrase of yours” answered Aman. “As far as I am concerned, my mouth is not yet sewn shut and I can say whatever I like.”

“Do you mean it?”

“I swear it by my sword,” said Aman touching the sword in question reverently. “You should join the dancing.”

“I was wondering if you would come with me,” said Sarai quietly.

Aman was about to refuse, he had no mind for dancing. But one look at those large dark eyes told him he would be committing a grievous sin if he did so. _How much courage did she muster for this question?_ He knew that if he were her he would have been deathly afraid. Thus Aman gave her a smile and held out both his hands towards the little girl.

“I would be more than honoured.”

She took his hands and led him to the fire. The truth was neither of them knew what to do with themselves initially, neither of them were particularly stunning dancers, nor were their bodies used to simply moving with the rhythm of the music. But the fire had consumed them tonight, burned away all their shadows and doubts. 

So they danced, they laughed, they sang. Aman looked around him all he could see was love, peace, and happiness. 

_I cannot subject them to war_ Aman realised. _Not when peace is possible._

It seemed the gods had the very same thing planned.

Call it fate, luck or coincidence but at that very moment as Aman turned around, his body collided into another’s. After a few moments of confusion, groping, and stumbling to regain his balance Aman realised it was Kartik Singh. They stood for a moment still figures in the backdrop of a raging fire and the frolicking people. 

_Peace is possible._ The phrase came to him. _None of these villagers deserve to die because I can not swallow my pride. I must tell him now._

“We need to talk,” he said simply.  
  


“Alright then,” Kartik said, stiffly. “Talk.”

“Alone.”

Kartik considered him for a moment, his once lively features now furrowed in concentration. It was an expression that made Aman feel vulnerable, naked. Kartik motioned towards the edge of the crowd, towards corner of the village square that lead to an alleyway shrouded in darkness. 

Aman made a move to leave but before he could he felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down to see Sarai.

“Can I come?” she asked.

“No little one,” he said. 

“Is it a state secret?” she asked.

Aman smiled “Yes it is. Will you be alright by yourself?”

“Do not worry,” Aman then noticed that Devika stood beside Kartik, she was the one who had spoken “I will look after her.”

With that Devika took Sarai’s hand and bent down no doubt asking the little girl about herself. Knowing that Sarai was in good hands Aman followed Kartik’s lead and made his way to the dark alleyway. 

When they finally arrived there, out of the light and into the darkness, Kartik folded his arms over his chest and raised his brow.

“What did you want to talk about that required privacy?”

Aman took in a deep breath, “I agree to marry you,”

Kartik’s folded arms loosened, his eyes widened. “I suppose I am going to die after the six months then?”

Aman did not answer him. They both knew the answer.

Kartik’s features flickered with a thousand emotions. So many that Aman felt that he had seen every expression that his face was capable of making.

_He wears his heart on his sleeve._ Aman thought _He is getting used to the idea that he has only six months left to live after we marry._

Aman almost felt sympathy for this man. The image of Kartik weeping while praying Okhine invaded his mind, but along with the image of his father, Shankar laid out on bier, veiled in sheer white. _I cannot forget my father, no matter how much I have come to care for this man._

“I expected nothing less. My people will be safe at least. ” Kartik whispered after a long silence, then he smiled taking on a joking tone “Will I have a say in my death? I would not like to be poisoned, you know once when I was a child some did try to poison me but-”

“ _I_ will kill you,” said Aman. “You will die by the end of my father’s sword.”

“Wonderful,” came Kartik’s sardonic answer. He then grinned and took Aman’s hand.

Aman felt his blood pulse at the touch, a shot of adrenaline scorching his veins. It took his a few moments to notice that Kartik was pulling him towards the crowd.

“What are you doing?” said Aman standing his ground.

“Announcing our forthcoming nuptials,” said Kartik. “Come, our people are waiting.”

~~~

Kusum did not know what to expect from the Autumn Festival. She remembered being here as a child. Dancing around the flames with, throwing in nuts and other sweets as offerings to the Shamsheer the fire goddess. 

She had tried hard to suppress the memories, but they kept flickering before her eyes. In short bright glimpses. It was the first time she has been back. Truly back. Not in camp, not the temple. But here in the heart of the village, the familiar soil, the familiar huts. She remembered running through these streets with her brother, laughing as her father would pick her up. She remembered getting the water from the well with her mother.

But every time the memories resurfaced, she suppressed them, as if by instinct. 

_Not here_ she told herself _not now, for I will surely weep if I do._

She had first been afraid that someone would recognise her. But they did not. The people saw who they wanted to see. The only real danger of being recognised lay in the old woman Vahi, so Kusum had taken great pains to stay as far from her as possible. 

Suddenly the music stopped, the dancing slowed. A hush fell over them. There was nothing to be heard but the sound of the crackling fire, still burning high. Kusum turned to where everyone else was facing. She saw that Vahi had stood up, leaning against her serpent carved stick. She smiled amiably. Beside her were Kartik and Aman, they stood together, Kartik with his splendid smile, and Aman as somber as ever but a serenity that she had not realised he possessed. 

They were unusually close, together, their shoulders almost touching. That was when Kusum realised they were holding hands. _No_ she thought _no this cannot be right._

“Our kings have something to announce,” said Vahi.

Kartik still holding onto to Aman’s hand stepped forward, Aman came forward with him. He seemed to sense the crowd’s anticipation. Sensed it and reveled in it. She expected pomp, some little ceremony, perhaps a speech. She had expected Kartik to speak. Instead, Kartik turned to look at Aman, as if he was seeking confirmation that this was real. As if he thought this was all a dream and any moment now, Aman would disappear. Aman turned away from Kartik, looked at the crowd, and gave a smile.

“We are here to announce a new alliance and the beginning of a new era,” he said simply. He said no more. 

Kartik raised their joined hands above their heads and with a large grin he proudly said “We are to be married.”

Whatever else he may have said was drowned out by the deafening roar of the villagers gathered. As their cheers grew louder and more fervent Kusum’s heart sank. She turned and her eyes met Rakesh’s, who stood at the edge of the crowd, his arms folded and a scowl darkening his features. He turned and entered a dark alleyway.

“Is everything alright?” came a voice beside her.

Kusum turned to see Rajini giving her a concerned look. She braved a smile for the other woman’s sake.

“Yes, I-” she looked away from Rajini. “I need to go.”

She did not wait to hear the other’s woman’s response. She left the cheering crowd behind to where Rakesh would be in the alleyway.

She found him leaning against one of the mudbrick houses.

“You failed,” he said simply. “Aman is going to marry the other king and all is lost.”

Kusum did not answer him, not for a while. The memory of his hands around her throat had not left her. She did not want to risk angering him. Suddenly an idea struck her. 

“There is still another way.”

  
______________

The song for this chapter is [Ek Dil Ek Jaan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qbiAAuygg8&list=PLEGJBUf-v8A4j47uATBLFZX5ImGKmIekp&index=14) from Padmaavat.


	19. The Lion and the Eagle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited Ch 19. You have every right to kill me after this (try reading while listening to the songs linked, it will hurt.)
> 
> Dedicating this chapter to Devika for her Royalty Kartik, I know I've already acknowledged and linked it but, hey it actually inspired the wedding outfits so I thought I would link it again. Thank you, Devika for gracing us with such amazing art.
> 
> Also would once again like to thank Mehan for helping me crackdown on the speech and to Dhyan and Shreya for being supportive lads. Love you guys.

Even starry nights have blood 

And the flames their ice

Do you know what mercy is blind god?

Or do you only deal in death and vice?

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

The rest of their visit to Balkar consisted mainly of discussing the logistics behind the marriage. How will they marry? Where would they marry? Who will they invite? Where would they live? Which city will be the capital? Which titles belonged to who? What will be the new emblem, the new sigil of the combined nations? What will they call this combined nation? 

The questions raged through the hallowed inner sanctuary of the Okhine temple and through letters sent back and forth between Khorshid and Chandan. 

They could not, after all, favour one side over the other. 

It was three months later, in the dead of winter, when Aman found himself in Balkar once again. This time to finalise the alliance, set it in stone, in other words, to marry Kartik Singh. Aman had wanted the wedding to happen as quickly as possible. After all, the sooner they married, the sooner he was able to get rid of Kartik. 

Everyone had remarked that it was a strange time to marry. Most marriages occurred in the spring or summer, celebrating the brightness and happiness of married life. Would not the people find it inauspicious? 

“A new era calls for new traditions.” Kartik had said. And that had been the end of that discussion.

Thus it came to this, Aman pacing around in one of the antechambers of the temple, clothed royal blue silk with heavy silver embroidery, a silver eagle, with its wings spread, emblazoned on his back. That had been Kartik’s idea. In order to show a united front, they were to wear mixed colours during the marriage. Right now on the other side of the temple, Aman knew Kartik too was pacing in some antechamber wearing fine red cotton garments and heavily embellished with gold.

_You have sullied our colours_ he could hear Shankar whisper in his ear. _You have sullied our family name and our traditions._

_But I will have peace and I will have my revenge._ Aman retorted. _What does it matter if our colours mix along the way?_

With the voice of Shankar now silenced, Aman went to the cedar box which had contained all the jewelry that they had selected for this day. He had donned most of it, one piece remained. The Bloody Necklace, once sent by Akhtar as a herald of war, now a symbol of peace. Aman took it out, studying the dark rubies on black iron before he proceeded to place it around his neck. 

This had been his idea. 

They were both to wear these, the Bloody Necklace and the Cold Dagger, at the wedding. Symbols of war turned into symbols of peace. 

It stuck out against the cool blue and silver tones, but by the gods, did it look splendid.

He found his mind wandering to Kartik Singh. What was he doing now? Was he too fastening the Cold Dagger to his waist at this moment? How would it look like against the red and gold?

_You will find out soon enough._

“It is nearly dawn” came the voice of Sunaina behind him.

Aman turned to see his mother standing at the door of the antechamber.

“I was waiting for you,” he said. “You know I can’t do my own Kalgi.”

Though they had not talked much about the marriage, Aman could tell Sunaina was quietly conflicted. He knew she was in a way pleased, as most people were at the prospect of peace. He also knew she was concerned, he had not consulted her about this, not truly, as a son should consult his mother. He knew she was worried about what he may have been planning. This vengeance had become a part of his life for so long, anyone who knew him knew that he not given up. He knew she worried and he could do nothing to alleviate that pain.

She came closer and looked up at him now, reaching out and touching his beard lightly.

“The beard suits you better,” she remarked. “I am glad you have decided to keep it.” then her eyes narrowed as if noticing something. “That is a lovely earring, Kartik has good taste.”

His hand self-consciously went up to the earring in question. It had been a gift from Kartik, one of the many exchanged between them during the three months leading up to the wedding. Since small gifts were to be expected between engaged couples and the people would have it odd if there was no exchange of such gifts, Kartik had put the front foot forward and had sent him an earring. It was a pretty thing, though long and laden with deep blue gems, the silver was delicate, and hung at his ear lightly, it felt almost like he was wearing air.

Aman had felt a sense of embarrassment when the messenger had first sent the gift. Not often did people notice his one pierced ear, especially since he did not often wear an earring, and if he did it was usually barely noticeable. The fact that Kartik had noticed...Aman was not entirely sure how to feel. So in response he had sent him a nose ring as if to say _I notice just as much as you._

He wondered if Kartik was wearing it today. It had been gold with scarlet garnets, it matched the decided garments.

“Are you nervous?” Sunaina asked.

“A little,” he lied.

In truth he was terrified. He was not sure how most men felt at the morning of their wedding. Delirious, nervous, elated perhaps. But he did not feel that. He had felt nothing in the lead up to the marriage. Which was good. The less he felt it the easier it would be to get through with it. But now it seemed as if all the nervousness he had kept at bay, had come to consume him threefold. 

He wondered what it would have been like, to marry a man he loved instead of one he hated. Would he have experienced all those light feverish emotions that a young bridegroom usually felt?

“When I married your father,” started Sunaina tentatively. “I too was scared.” she smiled. “I assure you Kartik will most likely be just as terrified.”

“He’s fought a war. He can’t be scared.”

“Marriage is another battle unto itself,” said Sunaina. She went to pick up the kalgi that lay in its box. “Sit.” 

Sunaina started pinning the kalgi deftly to his turban. It was the third time she had done it. The first had been when his father died, the second at his coronation. He felt like a child again. He felt like that terrified eleven-year-old boy who had been balked at the prospect of taking up his father’s throne. He watched her movements now, and just like last time, their familiarity calmed him, steered away the fear, made him feel brave.

When Sunaina was done she stood back and smiled wistfully taking in her son’s appearance. 

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Magnificent.” she whispered.

With a sense of relief he remembered that, this time, when he entered the presence of Okhine he would not have to take it off, neither his kalgi or his turban. It was the only time anyone could wear a headdress in their lifetime before the gods.

“It is time,” she whispered, taking up a strip of black linen. “The sun has nearly risen, the guests are waiting.”

It was a tradition in both Akhtar and Mahan, when a couple married they were brought blindfolded, led by their parents, into the presence of the gods at the first rays of the sun. It was only when they were seated before each other would their parents undo it for them. 

“Try not to lead me off a cliff,” he said half-heartedly.

“Do not talk such nonsense. I am your mother, I have a heart,” said Sunaina, then she paused as if considering something. “Who will be leading Kartik? His mother is dead as well is she not?”

She said it was a hint of sympathy that Aman would have found traitorous, had he not felt the very same sympathy himself. He had never thought of that side of Kartik. He had been so caught up in hating the man that he forgot that he too had family and childhood. 

_Does he miss his parents?_ Aman wondered. _As I miss Father?_

Another thought came, unsolicited: My _father may be dead yet I am still better off than he. I have a mother, cousins, an aunt and an uncle._

He brushed the thought away.

“I am sure he’s found someone,” said Aman softly. “He can’t possibly lead himself. He will more likely run into the guests than to the altar.”

“Of course.”

With that Sunaina came forward and tied the cloth around his eyes. Aman’s world was shrouded in darkness. He felt her take his hand, helping him stand. When he stood she draped what he knew to be a silver mantle on his right shoulder and led him out of the antechamber where the guests were waiting. 

Neither Aman or Kartik had wanted many guests but Parvaz and Keshav had insisted. The marriage was going to be momentous, the strangest, if not the greatest marriage in this history of the two nations thus far. They would be remiss of them to not invite all close family and all the nobility as well as any common folk who would like to attend. Even his uncle, Chaman, would be there. 

Aman would not be able to see them but he knew their eyes would be boring into him.

As they drew closer to the temple’s inner sanctuary Aman could hear the whispers of the guests gathered. He could hear their excitement and anticipation. He could feel it heavy in the air like smog.

They stopped and he knew he stood in front of the entrance. 

He heard more footsteps approaching him. He felt someone stir beside him, he felt a body so close to his, he could practically feel its warmth. He heard a sharp intake of breath and he knew, though he could not see, that it was Kartik. 

“Scared?” Aman found himself whispering not without a hint of derision.

He heard Kartik give a slight laugh “Shit scared.”

“Quiet,” Came a male voice, this Aman supposed was the man Kartik had chosen to represent his parents. “It is nearly time.”

They did not speak to each other, after that. They did not need to. Thus they were led in silence before the statue of Okhine, made to kneel before him. They placed their swords in front of each other and Aman remembered with bitter irony, the last time they had done this was when they first met. 

Finally the blindfold slackened, the shroud of darkness was lifted and the thing before Aman was not a man but a flame. In the slow rise of the bright winter sun Kartik Singh, shone, he glittered, he was ablaze, in the fine red cotton and rich gold embroidery and a gold mantle draped over one shoulder. At his waist was the Cold Dagger, it stuck out much like the Bloody Necklace at Aman’s throat, but just like the necklace, it did not look out of place

Aman noted with a certain satisfaction that Kartik was also wearing the nose-ring, the gold and scarlet one, the one that Aman had gifted. 

He looked beautiful, that much Aman had to admit rather reluctantly. 

Kartik was looking at Aman now with a sense of awe. It was the same look that he had in his eyes when Aman had held his face in his hands and wiped away his tears. A look of wonder, fear, confusion. A look that seemed to say _what did I do to deserve this?_

Ravi the High Priest and Kyra the High Priestess stood before the statue. Between them they held a cloth that shimmered light lavender, on it embroidered, a golden lion with silver eagle wings. The emblem of their new nation. 

And the name of that nation? That was not yet decided. Some had wanted to rename it Jalidistan after Erhan and Dilaram’s now divided empire. 

_“No,” Aman had said. “That nation had been forged in blood; this one will be forged in peace.”_

Many tried to combine the names of these two nations, but all the combinations came out sounding childish. So they had deigned to call it the combined nations of Akhtar and Mahan until a better name could be chosen.

The first few notes of a harp resounded throughout the hall, filling in the hollows and silences of the room. Then came a voice, one that sounded neither male nor female, but was high and clear, like the pure water of a mountain stream. The singer’s song had no words, not yet. 

As they sang, Ravi and Kyra came forward with the cloth and placed one end in Kartik’s hands and the other in Aman’s.

The singer’s song had slowed into an echo and it was finally stilled. 

“Rise,” the words were said in Mahanite, for the first half of the marriage was to be conducted in the Mahanite custom. They would go around the statue of Okhine four times, to symbolise the four stages of married life. 

The two kings picked up their swords and rose, the embroidered cloth between them held so the magnificent winged lion could be seen by all those gathered. 

The harp started to play again and the Mahanite marriage hymn, The Four Oaths, had begun. So did the marriage, in earnest. Aman would take the lead for the first two rounds, while Kartik would take the lead for the other two.

So Aman started with reverent somber steps making his way around the statue of Okhine for the first Oath, the Oath of Respect. He had heard the singer’s words before, as an honoured guest in countless marriages, in his nervousness, the words blurred with each other, but there were some phrases that stuck out. 

_I too have pride and dignity my love_

_Do not presume to wound it_

_This oath I can keep._ Aman thought. Kartik may be his enemy but Aman respected him thoroughly. How could he not? This man had willingly sacrificed his own life by giving himself in this marriage. The round had finished and they started on the second. The Oath of Trust. 

_My heart and soul are in your hands_

_I know you will not break them_

Aman remembered with a sinking heart how Kartik had said _I trust you_ when Aman had questioned him _._ Kartik was not only leaving his own heart and soul in Aman’s hands but the hearts and souls of all of Akhtar. Aman clutched the cloth that connected them, as Kartik now took the lead. 

They started on the third oath. The Oath of Friendship.

_This friendship will never be broken till my last breath,_

_I will never leave your side_

Friendship? They could hardly call whatever they had friendship but there was something there. An alliance, a common cause. He hoped that was enough to uphold the oath in the eyes of the gods. Aman looked up and, for the first time, saw the detailed face of a lion, embroidered in gold on Kartik’s back, much like the silver eagle on his own.

The Lion and the Eagle. There was a children’s tale. Aman knew Keshav was fond of it and had practically memorised it when he had been younger. The tale went that there was once an eagle and a lion. Both had been kings of the animals in their own domain. The eagle, the king of the sky and all flying creatures and the lion, the king of the earth and all land creatures. The two had been enemies and had waged war three times against each other.

The fourth time they had waged war, the two had been so badly injured, that they had taken mortal blows. As they lay dying they held each other, heard each other’s last words and said their prayers. The moral of the story, as Keshav was keen on saying, death was the only truth in our lives, enmity was something constructed and at death’s door it is forgotten.

Aman hoped it did not turn out to be prophetic. They then came to the fourth and final oath. The Oath of Love.

_Your soul and mine are one forevermore_

_Death shall never part us_

Aman lowered his head as he watched Kartik’s shoulders stiffen at those words. All oaths in one way or another he could keep but the Oath of Love was one he could not. _We parted long before death, and his death at my hand will only solidify our parting_. He felt something akin to guilt rise within him but suppressed it. 

He could tell himself again and again that he hated Kartik. That he wanted him dead. But the night at the temple always tormented. _What did I feel that night if it was not, in fact, some sort of love?_

The Four Oaths had ended and Aman's very being was in turmoil, once again they were kneeling in front of Okhine, facing each other, their swords before them, and the embroidered winged lion held between them.

The second half of the marriage was to begin. In Akhtar, it was said that a couple, exchanged vows, exchanged their consent before sealing it with a kiss. Ravi started speaking in Akhtari, of the sanctity of marriage, the responsibilities associated with it.

“I now ask you both to raise your right hands,” said Ravi. “And join them.”

The two kings reached out tentatively, their fingers slipping into place, with something that stood at the cusp of familiarity. Aman could not help but remember the first time they met, how they had held each other’s hands. Their left hands remained to clutch the embroidered winged lion.

“Before the presence of the gods do you swear,” started Kyra. “That you would be each other’s hope and comfort.”

_Do not despair, do not lose hope my friend all shall be well_ Aman had once said in these very halls and Kartik had responded _Thank you, for your words of comfort. They have given me hope._

These words seemed to thunder through the room. One look at Kartik’s eyes and he knew that he had heard them too.

“I swear it,” they said in unison. 

“Before the presence of the gods do you swear,” this time Ravi spoke. “That you will wipe away each other’s tears, catch them if they fall.”

The memory passed through their joined hands like a flash of lightning. Aman could never forget the feeling of the other man’s tears beneath his fingers as he had brushed them away.

“I swear it,” they said again in unison.

“Before the presence of the gods do you swear,” said Kyra. “To share your love, your dreams, your hearts and souls. To hold each other through the greatest griefs and the greatest ecstasies.”

Their voices trembled with a sudden realisation as they gave their final vow.

“I swear it.”

Kyra spoke: “Now let these vows be sealed by their lips. O, Okhine, their lips may part let not these souls be sundered, in life or death.”

Their grip on each other’s hand became vice-like as they leaned forward and their lips met. 

Aman was not sure what to expect from the kiss, he had expected it but he had not truly thought about it. He had not realized it could be like this. Soft, as light as a butterfly's wing, lingering, yet brief. When the weight of Kartik’s lips was lifted, Aman felt the absence keenly, his treacherous body, begging, aching for more. 

They were married now. The sun had truly risen. It was clear neither of them knew how to feel.

~~~

After the wedding ceremony the kings were led to a different chamber to sign, not only their marriage, but a treaty and union of the two nations. Chaman Tripathi was one of the few who were gathered there to sign off as witnesses. The others were Sunaina, Keshav, Rajini and Kaali, as well as Kartik’s advisors, Parvaaz, Devika and Qabid and two women that Chaman did not bother to find out the names of.

It was a solemn affair, done without much ceremony, and in almost silence. Chaman did not have to read the marriage treaty to know what it said. Aman had sent it to him for corrections during the three month engagement. Chaman may have been a pseudo-exile but he was still the best lawmaker and statesman of Mahan.

When the last signature was affixed, Chaman watched as the High Priest, Ravi, examined it and smiled.

“This day is truly auspicious,” he said. “The temple will keep this treaty safe, so that the generations to come will remember.”

Aman bowed his head, while Kartik smiled.

Though Chaman had been attending the ceremony, this was the first time he was able to get a good look at Kartik Singh, the man who had killed his brother. 

Whatever he expected it had not been this man, with his easy grin and vibrant charm. He was so different from Aman, where Aman was quiet and reserved, Kartik was loud and brazen. Where Aman was graceful and calculated, Kartik was open and charming. They were as different as the sun was to the moon, as night was to day. 

“We shall leave now,” said Kyra. “There shall be feasting soon and I am sure you have much to discuss amongst yourselves.”

With that the High Priest and Priestess left. Leaving the room to awkward silence. They did have much to discuss but it was clear no one wanted to talk.

Kartik looked around once at them, uncomfortable with the silence, he grinned at them.

“I am afraid, in Aman’s haste to be married,” he turned to Sunaina and Chaman “I have not truly been introduced to the whole family.”

In spite of himself Chaman found himself not only smiling but also warming to the Akhtari King. 

“I am Chaman,” he reached and took Kartik’s hand, shaking it genially. “Though you can call me uncle.”

“The great statesman,” came the voice of Devika. “We have heard much of you even in Akhtar.”

Kartik laughed “Devi here is a huge admirer of your work, being a stateswoman herself. I expect you have much to talk about.” he turned to Sunaina. “You must be the Queen Mother, Sunaina Tripathi.”

Kartik went forward to touch her feet with his hands, before bringing them to his chest, as a sign of respect. Sunaina gave an unexpected smile before placing a hand on his head.

“Call me Mother,” she said. 

“Mother,” he repeated as if experimenting the word on his tongue. 

Kartik looked at her and his eyes seemed to almost glitter with tears, but he smiled again and Chaman was not sure anymore.

“Well I am afraid I do not bring any more members to this family,” said Kartik apologetically. “It is only me. Unless you are willing to accept Qabid, he has been like a father to me.”

Qabid, the man Chaman recognised as the one who had led the blindfolded Kartik to Okhine, smiled and bowed at them.

“I am no royalty,” he said. “I am a mere physician, it is honour enough that I was selected to lead the king to his marriage.”

“Any family of yours, is family to us,” said Sunaina, with a touch of pity in her voice, her hands going to bangle on her arm. One of the two worn by all consorts of Mahan. Chaman could practically hear her thoughts for they mirrored his own. 

_Poor boy_ they seemed to say, Bearing _the burdens of an orphan and a king._

“Is Aunt Champa not here?” asked Aman. It was the first time he had spoken since the signing of the treaty.

At the sound of Champa’s name, Chaman felt a sense of guilt and longing. It had been ten years since he had last spoken to her. There was not a day that went by where he did not think of her. Did she miss her own nephew’s wedding because she could not bear to see Chaman? He found he could not blame her.

“She is here,” said Sunaina. “She was feeling unwell, though she will be there at the feast tonight.” She gave Chaman a pointed look, as if to say _You best be there_. “I should be off, it is time that I too made myself ready.”

She left and soon after the others filed out, until the only people remaining were the two Kings, Kaali and Chaman. 

“I suppose,” started Kaali. “That all past enmities are now quite forgotten. Our ledgers have been wiped clean. Even the most recent atrocities.”

Kaali enunciated the last few words and his eyes fell on Aman. It was then that Chaman understood that Kaali had not wanted this marriage. _You were closer to Shankar than I was,_ thought Chaman ruefully. _Of course, you would be angry that Aman had married the man who killed our king._

The shade of Shankar descended on them all like a bastard child. An oppressive presence that could neither be denied or acknowledged. Chaman watched as Aman's features were redressed in firm anger. That was to be expected. But what Chaman found more surprising was the expression on Kartik's face. The young man had bowed his head and was almost reduced to tears. Could it be that this King was truly remorseful?

Aman stood stiffly, “I must prepare for the feast.”

Without uttering another word, he left the room. Kaali bowed and left after him. 

It was Kartik and Chaman now. Chaman too was about to leave when the expression on Kartik’s face held him back. He too knew what it was like to make mistakes and regret them. _I should have been there with Shankar. I should have stopped Aman’s madness. I can do one thing right today at least._ He paused and put a hand on Kartik’s shoulder.

“For me,” he started. “All past enmities have been quite forgotten.”

Kartik looked at him quizzically. “Shankar was your brother, can you truly forget that?”

“Ay, he was my brother,” said Chaman, the song of Erhan and Dilaram in his ears now, the old guilt rising back up. _I should have been there_. “And he is dead because of you. But in the end he was no god. In the end it was war. He was as much a man as you and I. All men make mistakes. All men must die.” he paused. “Now that I have come to know you, thought briefly, I rather he died by your hand than anyone else’s. I may not forget it but I forgive you, Kartik. You are now as much my nephew as Aman, and I am glad of it.”

One look at Kartik’s face told Chaman that his forgiveness meant the world.

The young man had so deeply impressed Chaman that he found that long after, even in the afternoon as he made his way to the feasting hall, that he could not help but feel his nephew had done the right thing in marrying him. And he himself had done the right thing in forgiving him.

As soon as he was in the feasting hall he was accosted by Rajni who wrapped him in her embrace. Keshav followed soon behind her.

“We did not get to talk properly during the wedding,” said Rajini, pulling away from him and slipping a hand through his arm. “How was the journey?”  
  
“Tiring” Chaman admitted. “But I am better now that I get to see you and Keshav more often.” 

“Mother is here too, she is with Aunt Sunaina,” said Keshav. “Come we will take you-”

“No,” the word came out sharp. “It is best not to-”

“Chaman I am so glad that you can make it” came a voice behind him.

He turned to see that it was Sunaina, along with the pretty young woman, Kusum. That did not surprise him, but what did was the other woman beside Sunaina.

Champa Tripathi. His wife, his love, his soul. He felt his heart still at the sight of her. He had not seen her in ten years and yet somehow all the old feelings resurfaced at the sight of her. It pierced an old wound in his chest, black poisoned blood spilling out.

“Champa?” he managed out.

“Chaman,” she said coldly, she turned to Sunaina, giving her a glare. But Sunaina did not seem to notice.

“I see we have been all united once again as a family,” said Sunaina. “It has been so long. I always knew it would be at Guddu’s wedding.”

Champa continued to avoid Chaman’s look. _A happy reunion indeed,_ he thought bitterly.

“Try not to call him Guddu,” quipped Keshav, with an easy grin, trying to lighten the mood. “He is a married man. You would not want to disgrace him in front of his husband, and on the night of his wedding.”

Rajini laughed as well as Sunaina and Chaman. Even Champa gave a smile. But Kusum’s face had turned sullen. _Is it possible?_ Thought Chaman. _That Kusum was in love with Aman? I am too old for this._

He had no more time to ponder it for at that moment, the trumpets sounded, to announce the arrival of the wedded couple. They all turned to the entrance of the feasting hall. Kartik and Aman entered hand in hand.

A loud cheer resounded and even Chaman found himself clapping. They were still wearing their wedding finery. Aman in blue and silver and Kartik in red and gold and they looked every inch the kings they were. It was clever of them, Chaman had to admit, to wear mixed colours to show a front of unity. 

The two walked up the high table, as the gathered guests cheered, Kartik seemed to revel in the clamour. While Aman took it in with his characteristic calmness. 

The two now stood at the high table and the crowd was now hushed expecting them to say something, anything. It was Aman who spoke first.

“First we would like to welcome and thank each and every one of you for gracing our wedding,” he started. “It means more than you can ever imagine for a king to have the backing of his people behind him.”

There were many whoops of joy at this. 

“We are more fortunate today,” continued Aman. “To know that we not only have the backing of our individual nations but the backing of each others. This day, this marriage marks the beginning of a new era, where Mahan and Akhtar become one.”

“We understand,” said Kartik. “That there will be many changes and many difficulties for everyone. But we have stood tall for hundreds of years, individual nations. But as the poet Alarabi tells us, _‘Tall is he who has a shoulder to lean on’_ ”

“We made a promise to each other,” said Aman, his voice was a little quieter. “To love, respect, trust, and cherish each other for the rest of our lives and beyond into death’s domain. But that promise is not just ours to keep, it is also yours.”

“May you love respect and cherish each other,” said Kartik. “As friends, as family, as brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, as cousins,” then with a mischievous look at Aman. “...and as lovers.”

Aman gave him a smile. To anyone who did not know him they would have thought the smile affectionate, but Chaman knew otherwise.

Kartik raised a glass of wine “Let the feasting begin.”

The gathered guests erupted in another bout of cheering. The feasting had started and so had the tributes, gifts given by family members, nobles and close friends to the married couple. The first gift will always be from the couple’s parents.

Sunaina took Chaman’s arm “Come we shall go together.”

So it came to be that the two of them became the first to arrive at the high table. 

Both Kartik and Aman smiled at them.

“Mother, Uncle,” Aman acknowledged. “I suppose you are here to give us a gift.”

Sunaina pinched his cheek “I already gave you the greatest gift in the world.”

“My life?” asked Aman drily.

“Precisely. My gift is for Kartik,” she said. She then proceeded to take off the gold bangle on her wrist. “Every consort of Mahan has worn this bangle. You are now not only King of Akhtar, but King of Mahan and,” she paused. “You are my son.”

She took Kartik’s hand, and slid it through the bangle. His eyes met Sunaina’s with newfound admiration and gratitude.

“Thank you,” he sounded like he was barely holding back tears. “Mother” he added.

“Are there not two bangles Mother?” asked Aman.

“I gave the other to someone I consider a daughter,” said Sunaina, smiling. “I’m sure you understand.”

“You are generous with your love,” said Kartik, he was now looking at the bangle at his wrist. “I can not fault you for that.”

“And what of you Uncle,” asked Aman. “Do you have a present for both of us or has Kartik taken my place in your heart as well?”

Chaman laughed and placed the bundle in front of them. “I think you will both be pleased. I managed to procure it, against all odds.”

Aman opened the bundle and smiled graciously at the contents. It was a book, bound in black leather and gold-leaf. Kartik ventured to open it, when he saw what was inside he smiled.

“Poetry?” he asked.

“The five greatest love poems from before the time of Erhan and Dilaram,” said Chaman proudly. “This book is one of only two copies throughout the whole Kingdom, most copies were unfortunately victims of the great burnings.”

“I never knew that such a collection existed,” whispered Kartik in awe, his eyes devouring the lines on the page. “I suppose all of them end in tragedy, all the great love stories do.”

“Perhaps yours will be the first not to,” said Chaman tentatively, knowing full well that though there was something between the two men, it may not yet be love. Kartik gave Chaman an ironic smile, while Aman’s expression remained placid. Chamn continued talking “I had been meaning to write an epic on current events. What greater even to write it on than this one, you have brought peace and prosperity to the two nations through your marriage.”

“You always said,” Aman started. “That epic poetry was history distilled to its finest points. Very well uncle, write us an epic that they will sing for generations to come.”

Chaman was surprised that Aman remembered that. His heart warmed. _So he has not forgotten me entirely._

Kartik grinned in response, “Your words are wise, I hold the same views. I too have always wanted to write an epic. I have started in fact.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Chaman. “A poet and a King. A rare combination. What is the subject?”

  
  
“Aayush and Taharin,” said Kartik, then his brows furrowed as if he had some terrible mortifying realisation. “Though I do not think I will have the time to complete it.”

Chaman watched as Aman’s eyes flickered towards Kartik, with an expression of sympathy and shame. 

“You will write of the love that started the war,” said Sunaina who up until then had been listening attentively, now attempting to lighten the mood. “And Chaman will write of the love that ended it.” 

“I see you both have found a common passion,” Aman said quietly. “Uncle, you should come join us Chandan, stay with us for the next six months. Keshav and Rajini miss you dearly and I am sure my husband will too when deprived of your company.”

As soon as Aman had requested this Kartik had turned and gave Aman a strange look that Chaman could not figure out.

“And what about you Aman?” asked Chaman playfully, with pain underlying his tone. “Do you miss me?”

“You are my only Uncle,” he said. At least he did not have to lie about that. “I insist.”

Chaman knew of their plan, first the couple would stay in Chandan for two months, then for two months in Khorshid before they would be relocated to the now abandoned city of Shafaq that lay in the region of Balkar a mile north of Kashatr. 

Shafaq was once a great capital in the time of Erhan and Dilaram, but after their deaths, the city was abandoned. An empty magnificent place that would now be refurbished and repopulated while the king’s spent their time in Chandan and Khorshid. It would be their new home for the rest of their married life. 

Chaman wanted nothing more than to go with them, see Chandan once again, see Akhtar for the first time. Revisit the old fortress of Shafaq. 

“As you wish,” he said and made a move to leave. “My blessings on you both.”

“May you know every happiness,” said Sunaina.

The two of them left the high table and seated themselves at a lower table, where the rest of the family were sitting. Lords and commoners alike presented the kings with their gifts. But Chaman did not pay them any heed, his eyes found themselves more frequently on Champa, who was still ignoring him. He had not even noticed that the gift giving had finished until there was a hush in the room.

Chaman’s eyes left Champa and found the center of attention. A singer, a sinewy woman of thirty or so years bowed before the kings.

“What is your name?” asked Kartik.

“They call me Harini,” she said, in the Balkari tongue. 

“A bard?” asked Aman, gesturing to the lyre in her hands.

“Yes. If it pleases your majesties I have composed a song for you.”

“What is it called?” Kartik asked, smiling.

“Two Kings,” Harini said. 

“Aah yes,” said Kartik. “I have heard of such a song, it is supposed to detail how my beloved husband and I first met. Though I cannot say I have had the pleasure of hearing the song itself, please sit and sing for us.”

A stool was brought and Harini sat. After letting out a few notes on her lyre, she started:

_"There was a king they say_

_Carved from starlight and ice_

_The night was his prey_

_The cold winters his eyes_

_His vengeance so steadfast_

_That unto his sword he was bound_

_"Another great king they call_

_A creature of the flame_

_The sun was his thrall_

_In blood, he won his name_

_So bright was his laugh_

_That shadows of strife were drowned_

_"And the moonlight would dance_

_Upon two kings left to chance_

_Love knows no pride_

_Like the gods, it is blind_

_"In the darkness of night_

_Under Okhine’s blind gaze_

_Before history’s pen would write_

_There rose the walls of misty haze_

_Was it worship or was it love_

_When the two kings met without crowns_

_"And the moonlight would dance_

_Upon two kings left to chance_

_Love knows no pride_

_Like the gods, it is blind_

Chaman found that as the singer sang, the more unguarded were the expressions on both the kings faces. It was as if someone was slowly unveiling their secret to the world. Chaman noted that at the end of the song Aman and Kartik’s eyes had met, and something seemed to have passed between. Unspoken words, unsung melodies. He wondered how much of the song was true. 

~~~

Kaali was not pleased. Not remotely. 

This wedding, this alliance, had struck an arrow right in the middle of his plans. In Aman’s absence he had kept the people’s loyalty completely to their king, hoping that Aman’s vengeance would win out, take the bait that Kaali had planted in Balkar, they would go to war, and the people would follow him willingly.

He had not expected Aman to come home an engaged man. He had underestimated Aman’s desire for peace and overrated his desire for vengeance. He should have turned their loyalty against him.

_Or better yet I should have gone with him._ Kaali had realised. _I could have steered him away from this._

He had tried to dissuade Aman from this marriage when he had arrived. But Aman’s greatest strength and greatest weakness was that he was as stubborn as a mule and unmoving as a rock.

Kaali, after twenty-one years of knowing the young king, knew his nature, as if it were his own. He knew when to influence him when Aman’s mind was moldable. Thus he knew that when Aman had arrived back from Balkar that nothing would have dissuaded him, no matter how desperate the pleading, or how bright the tears. Not even invoking his father’s name would have done anything. 

At this point, he would have already reconciled whatever he was doing with his vengeance.

So Kaali had looked for points in Aman’s seemingly impenetrable armor, and aimed his barbs at them. It would not be enough to shatter his resolve but it would weaken it. That weakening was something Kaali could use to his advantage.

A marriage in Mahan was only legal once it was consummated. Though Kaali could not stop Aman from marrying Kartik, he could steer Aman away from consummating the marriage, creating doubts as to whether the marriage was legal, which further would create doubts not only in the mind of the people but also in the marriage treaty itself.

It was not much, but it could create a crack in the alliance, which if probed enough could eventually break it.

The great songs and love ballads had now been sung and the music had taken a more sprightly tune. The sounds of harps replaced by pipes and strings, and clapping. Soon the people too were dancing.

Kaali watched as Kartik stood from the high table and turned to Aman. He watched as Kartik held out his hand with all the sensitivity of a new lover.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, thought softly, it was loud enough for Kaali, who sat close to their table, to hear.

Aman frowned, Kartik leaned forward a little and said something that Kaali could not hear and his heart sank as Aman took Kartik’s hand and smiled. 

Aman was good at acting, for a king must also be a great actor if he was to survive in a court, and even though Kaali knew Aman had no love for the Akhtari king, there was something in his smile that seemed almost genuine. There was something in the way they looked at each other, an intimacy, a familiarity that spoke of the beginnings of respect and affection. This unsettled Kaali.

He watched as they made their way to the middle of the dancing crowd, a low cheer rising as the people noticed them and made room for them. Soon the two kings were ringed by the dancing crowd clapping, cheering them on, urging them to dance.

For a moment it seemed neither of them knew what to do with themselves, for a moment they held each other’s gaze with that burning intimacy that looked all too much like desire. They stood two glittering kings, one gleamed like daylight and fire and the other shimmered like the ice and the night sky.

It was Kartik who smiled first, it was Kartik who moved first, in a series of simple lively moves that used his whole body, suiting the vivacious tones of the music and the energetic clapping. Aman had not yet moved, so Kartik pouted at him mockingly, his dancing becoming more energetic as he came closer to Aman held out his hands towards the other king, imploring him to join. 

Aman laughed then and Kaali knew it was a laughter of pure unadulterated joy as if he had forgotten everything and the man before him was all he needed. The laughter died but the smile stayed and Aman took Kartik’s hands and put his whole body into dancing.

Aman had never been a good dancer, which was surprising since his footwork was excellent when it came to sword fighting. But tonight perhaps because of the atmosphere, or the fact that Kartik himself was such a good dancer that it had rubbed off on everyone present, there was a liveliness to Aman’s movements that Kaali had not seen since he was a child.

This happiness was dangerous. Kaali knew he had to destroy it before it foiled his plans any further. So he made his way to the middle of the dancing crowd and turned Aman around to face him.

The words, like sharpened barbed arrows were poised at his tongue, ready to strike.

~~~

Rajini knew there were many who were pleased with the wedding, and many who were decidedly not. She herself had not known how to feel. She knew that Aman was only doing this to get rid of a third party, but what after that? What will happen when they get rid of the threat? Marriage, after all, was not a temporary thing.

But all these questions disappeared when Rajini found herself smiling as she watched her cousin dance with the Akhtari King. There was the little boy that she loved, there was her little Guddu. 

For the first time since Aman had announced his marriage, Rajini felt pleased. It was rare to see the little boy in him, rarer still to see it last for the more than thirty seconds. Here his smile had lasted two whole dances. They were well into their third dance when Rajini noticed Kaali move towards them, this was also when she noticed Kusum move away from the crowd and out of the hall into the gardens.

_She loves him._ Rajini thought. _She cannot bear to see him with someone else._

Rajini knew all too well that feeling. Without looking back she followed the other woman outside. She took her time in approaching Kusum, studying her all the while. She was wearing a shade of light green, with silver leaves embroidered onto the skirts. She was radiant, but her features were forlorn. 

“It’s a lovely night,” Rajini said to her once she was close enough.

Kusum turned to her and gave her a sad smile. “Yes it is, the marriage was lovely too, very unique.”

Rajini met her eyes and gave her what she hoped was a comforting smile.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said. She saw Kusum stiffen at those words, looking at her with alarm. “I know how you feel about Aman.”

  
  
Kusum seemed to relax as if some burden that she had to carry had been lifted. “I am glad for him truly. He seems very happy with Kartik.”

“He does,” said Rajini softly. “I hope he has the sense not to kill him.”

Kusum laughed at that “I do not think he will. He would plunge the whole country into war if he did that.”

“You have more faith in him that I do,” said Rajini jokingly. Though she knew Aman would never plunge the country into war. Well not yet anyway. 

“Rajini,” started Kusum. “I need to tell you something.”  
  
“Anything,”  
  
“I-”

Before she could continue one of the serving boys came to them. 

“My ladies,” he said bowing. “The Bedding Ceremony is to start.”

The Bedding Ceremony was a Mahanite custom, an archaic appendage from a time when marriage only used to be between men and women. The couple would be carried to the bedroom, while the guests would shout out suggestive words of encouragement. In accordance with tradition, a few witnesses would stay in the couple’s bedroom until they had performed their _duties_ at least once, to ensure that the married couple would indeed produce children from their union. 

A marriage in Mahan was only legal once it was consummated, unlike Akhtari custom where the couple had to live together for six months.

Indeed right now they could hear ribald jokes and laughter emanating from the feasting hall. 

“We will be there shortly,” Rajini reassured the boy, then turned to Kusum. “Well my presence will be noted. You can stay here if you like, I know it can be difficult-”

Kusum interrupted her by slipping her hand through hers “If you are with me I can brave it.”

When they were inside the atmosphere was no longer baudy or ribald. Indeed the room had been hushed and at the center stood a red faced Aman, trembling with rage alongside a very uncomfortable Kartik. It was clear that the bedding ceremony had started but Aman had put an end to it.

“I will not,” he said softly but sternly. “Have a Bedding Ceremony.”  
  
“But it is tradition,” came the voice of Kaali. “Your majesty you know that-”

“An outdated tradition to ensure that children are begotten from a marriage,” Aman’s voice was as sharp as a newly minted blade.

“If you have not noticed,” said Kartik, clearly also not entirely keen on participating in the ceremony. “We are both men, neither of us have wombs, or would you like to make an inspection?”

He proceeded to make a motion as if to remove the lower half of his clothes but the Kaali raised his hands and said:

“That will not be necessary.”

“Good,” said Aman. “For the Akhtari value privacy on their wedding night. I will respect my husband’s wishes and not subject him to your depravities. If I catch anyone near our room, I will personally strike their head off.” 

With that Aman took Kartik’s hand and led him out of the feasting hall to the room that had been prepared for them.

Uncertainty once again clouded Rajini’s mind. There were two ways in which people could speak of what happened hereafter. The first and the most preferable, being that Aman had wanted privacy on his first night with his husband.

The second was one that troubled her, which no doubt Kaali was about to bring up before Aman interrupted him. There was room for doubt, in both the marriage and the legality of the alliance.

~~~

As he was led by Aman to the room the priests had prepared in the temple Kartik wondered what the night had in store for them. Will Aman go through with it? And if he did, what were his preferences? Did he have preferences? Had he been with anyone else before?

Kartik felt a blush creep to his cheeks at his thoughts and was grateful that the night was dark and Aman would not be able to see him. Aman’s hold on his hand was the only warmth in the midwinter night. Kartik could still remember the kiss they shared at the temple, as they had been wedded, the recollection brought an unexpected smile to his face. His lips, his whole body, had burned, hungered for more, it still did. 

He remembered how Aman had danced with him. He remembered his smile and remembered thinking it was the most beautiful thing in the world. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _perhaps he does not hate me as much. Perhaps there is room here for love._

If it had not been for that advisor, Kaali, who Kartik understood to be Aman’s regent, coming and whispering something in Aman’s ear that darkened his features and the subsequent shouts for the Bedding Ceremony that Aman had managed to circumvent. Kartik was sure they would have danced the whole night away.

Kartik also felt a touch of warmth bloom in his heart at the memory of Sunaina giving him the bangle and of Chaman discussing poetry. How ready they were to accept him into their family, despite having killed their king, who had been a husband and a brother.

_I do not deserve this._

He savoured the feelings, the memories, nonetheless just like how he will savour every moment in the last six months of his life.

The night he and Aman had announced their marriage to the world was the night he had thought of Qabid and how he had cared for him as if Kartik was his own son. He thought of Devika and how she had sworn she would not let him die. He thought of Parvaaz, the man who was like an older brother to him and his voice of reason.

_I can never tell them._ He had decided. _Never, they must never know. It would hurt them far too much._ He had also promised himself, no matter what he was going to enjoy the time he had left. Every moment of it. And if that meant falling in love with the man who hated him. So be it. 

If he died, he would die with a few happy memories still beating in his chest. 

Many, he knew, would scorn to call it love so soon. Yet what else could it be? He knew he loved the man who had comforted him, and despite everything Aman was still that man. 

_If he goes through with it tonight,_ he thought. _I will love him, cherish him like no one else could. He gave me hope, I can give him that much at least._

As soon as they were inside Aman closed and locked the door behind them. He let out a relieved sigh. Kartik stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself so he studied the room. It was spacious, furnished beautifully with hangings from both countries. In the centre of the room was the bed, it took up at least a quarter of the room.

He also realised with relief that the room was heated, using some system of pipes and ventilators that Kartik did not care to figure out. In fact he was not even sure they were pipes or ventilators. He turned back to Aman, having thoroughly scoured the room, and once again, he felt his breath catch in his throat. 

He had thought him beautiful, in deep royal blue as silver, in the light of the rising sun as Qabid had taken his blindfold off. But at night, under the silver light of the frosty winter moon, Aman’s features took on a new beauty. He was both dark and bright, severe, and brilliant, the night sky encapsulated in his whole being. 

“We should probably get changed into something more comfortable,” Kartik suggested, noting with relief someone had brought their trunks of clothing to this room.

“Yes these clothes are rather uncomfortable,” said Aman. He walked towards the trunks that lay in their rooms and opened his taking out a pair of trousers. Kartik did the same. 

They did not speak but went to opposite corners of the room turning their backs to each other. Kartik fastidiously stripped off to bare skin before putting on his trousers and fastening them at the front.

“You can turn around now,” came Aman’s voice.

Kartik turned to see Aman, without all his finery, wearing nought but an old pair of trousers. Kartik tried not to make it too obvious that he was taking in every line and curve of his body. It was a nice body too, unfortunately for Kartik, it only made the ache in his chest the desire to touch the other man grow.

He looked up at Aman’s eyes and found they were studiously fixed on him, or rather on his body. He knew what he was looking at, the numerous scars that were branded there. How long had he been staring?

“Battle wounds?” Aman asked. He did not have to ask which battle, Kartik had only fought in one.

Kartik shook his head. “No.”

He remembered the rose in his father’s fist, the way he crushed it between his fingers, the thorns piercing fleshing, rivulets of blood falling to the floor from between his fingers. That had only been the beginning of his father’s cruelties.

He had thought Aman would ask him more, perhaps even ask him how his own father, Shankar, died. But he did not. He only nodded as if storing the information in his mind.

The atmosphere had become heavy again and it did not help that the room had warmed considerably.

“Thank you,” Kartik, stepping closer to the other man. “I am not sure I would have been able to go through with the Bedding Ceremony. It seems so...”

“Barbaric, depraved?” asked Aman, noting Kartik’s surprised look he said. “Do not give me that look I agree with you. Some do not find comfort in their own beds so they prefer to see others do what they only dream of,” Aman’s voice had found its edge. “Besides, I did _not_ do it for you”

“No of course not,” Kartik grinned. “Not everyone is as generous as I am.”

Kartik had casually placed a hand on Aman’s shoulder as he said this. He had thought nothing of it. 

He had not even noticed that his hand was there until he saw Aman’s eyes widen. 

Until he saw Aman recoil from his touch and move away from him, staring back at him with disgust and indignation, which he eventually mastered.

Kartik remembered the look in Aman’s eyes as they had danced together, and earlier, months ago when he had wiped away his tears. The affection that had been there was long gone. 

Kartik’s hand hung in midair before he abruptly brought it back to his side. The word embarrassed was not enough to cover all his emotions. He felt dirty, predatory. He felt disgusted in himself. He felt like a fool. A fool to have thought Aman in any way would even want him.

_You killed his father, a_ voice mocked _Do you really think that he would want you or your filthy touch? Do you really think he will want your love?_

“Mahanite custom decrees that…”

“We do not have to go through with this,” said Kartik interrupting him.

“Mahanite custom decrees that marriage is not legal until consummated.” continued Aman as if Kartik had not spoken. “I may have been able to keep them away from prying at the marriage bed, but servants talk...I will endure it.”

_Endure._

The feeling of self-loathing increased within Kartik. Was he really so despicable that he had to be _endured_?

“We do not have to go through with it,” Kartik repeated firmly, his voice rising in hurt and anger. “We just need to make it look like it happened. Besides,” he paused as he felt his voice cracking. “I may be a killer, but I am no rapist. I will not lay with you unless your heart desires it.”

“And what if I never desire it?”

If Kartik was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit those words hurt more than anything. 

“Then so be it,” said Kartik. “You can take the bed.”

“And you?” 

“The floor. The tiles seem warmer than the bed.”

“The servants?”

“Tell them I fell off”

Kartik turned to the window. He might as well take to star-gazing tonight. Yet he found himself, touching the bangle that Sunaina had given him. He smiled at the memory of her insisting she call him mother. It had been sixteen years since he had uttered those words. 

He found himself turning back to Aman, whose eyes it seemed were still on him.

“I meant it when I said I trusted you,” he said. “I know you probably do not believe me. But believe me when I say this, it would be an honour to die by your hand.”

  
______________________________________________________

Link to [Devika's Royalty Karthik](https://www.instagram.com/p/B-e8EzAFJkX/?igshid=7nsad5be9waj) which inspired the wedding constumes. 

Songs for this Chapter are [Ek Dil Ek Jaan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qbiAAuygg8) (I know i used it for ch 18 as well but it fits) for the wedding. [Sajan Bade Senti](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C45OwYPebE0) for Kartik's feelings while they are dancing and before the wedding night. Finally [Oh Bhai Re](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2Y0B2m6zzk) for the wedding night itself.


	20. These Old Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST AND FOREMOST HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE AUTHOR UNDER THIS TAG DHYAN! PLEASE GO WISH THEM A HAPPY BIRTHDAY OR I WILL SHANK YOU WITH MY SWORD. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to you, Dhyan, you are one of the people who made this fic possible, however this is not my surprise im still working on it. Be prepared :).

Scars will ring hollow 

They are silent like your tears

Yet behind them all are stories

Filled with dread and dusk and fear

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Aman had fallen asleep with Kaali’s words still ringing in his ears. 

_ They will want to start the ceremony soon, it is not too late to back down. Your father would not have wanted this. _

He had fallen asleep with the image of Kartik’s hurt and ashamed expression, and the knowledge that not all the scars on his body were battle wounds.  _ Who would do such a thing? _ He had wondered.  _ Who would exact such brutalities on the body of a boy?  _ For Aman could tell by looking at them that the scars were many years old. 

He had fallen asleep burning with curiosity. In fact, it was a miracle that he had slept at all with the thousand questions that had roiled within him. Who had done it? Why? When? How? 

Despite that, he had been resolved not to ask him. 

It was not just pride that had stopped him from doing so, but fear. The fear of knowing that even the man who killed his father was a victim. The fear of garnering more affection and sympathy for Kartik than was allowed.  _ I can respect him, but I shall not open my heart to him.  _

When he had taken Kartik’s hand he had every intention of going through with the wedding night with him. There had been two warring sides in him. One side was indignant at the thought of taking his father’s killers to bed and the other side of him burned with desire for the man that was Kartik Singh.

When he had recoiled from Kartik’s touch Kaali’s words had been ringing in his ears. The side that burned with humiliation at the notion of practically whoring himself to his father’s killer had won out in that moment, but it had been tempered quickly when he realized that the expression on Kartik’s face had become guilt-ridden. 

_ No,  _ he had wanted to say at that moment, he wanted to hold the other man’s face in his hands and comfort him like that night in the temple.  _ No, do not put this on yourself, I know you had no bad intentions.  _

But he had not said that. He had done nothing. And he heard the apology, the humiliation, the self-hatred in Kartik’s voice, and Aman hated himself for causing it. 

When Kartik had offered him the bed and taken the floor for himself, Aman had a fleeting thought that he should let him sleep on the other side. But the words had died at his throat. 

And he had slept only to be woken up to a loud sharp groan.

At first, he could not register where he was and only thought that it might have been Rajini practicing with some unfortunate soldier. But as the groans became more desperate, he realised they were not from outside his window but from his room. Then he realised he was not in Chandan but rather, in Balkar, in Kashatr. The memories of the marriage and the night of his wedding rushed through him and he realised the groans were Kartik’s.

He jumped up from his sleeping position and turned to see the other man still on the floor, his eyes screwed shut, evidently still asleep, but in the throes of a terrible nightmare. 

“No...no.” the words barely managed to escape his lips. “No please.”

Kartik, in complete thrall to the demon that tormented his dream, twisted around as if to escape from something or someone. In doing so he managed to hit his shoulder against one of the side rails of the bed. 

Aman watched on in horror as Kartik’s eyes shot wide open, his mouth distorted, opened with pain, as if some animal, agonising scream was lay imprisoned at his throat. His eyes met Aman’s with a look of desperation.

_ Help me.  _ They seemed to say.

Aman acted without thinking. He pushed the sheets aside and went to him, carefully putting a hand on the shoulder that had not hit the bed. Kartik’s skin burned as if he was in a fever.

“Put your arm around me,” said Aman.

Kartik did not answer him, his features twisted in excruciating pain, tears of pain coming out of his tightly shut eyes, but he followed through with Aman’s instructions, and put his arm around Aman’s shoulder. Using all his strength Aman hoisted him up, laying him down on the bed.

“I will get a physician, I-” started Aman.

“No, not physician,” Kartik managed out. “Qabid. Call Qabid.”

Aman had vague recollections of the old man who had taken off Kartik’s blindfold and he nodded. With that he cast a robe over himself and left the room. It was still in the early hours of the morning and the sun had not yet risen. A serving girl was walking towards him and gave him a look. He knew she was trying to discern whether he and Kartik had indeed consumated the marriage. 

He suddenly felt naked before her. He wrapped the robe which had up until now been hanging loosely at his sides, tightly around his bare torso and he hoped that his disheveled and tired features, as well as his attire, attested for the fact that they did. 

This would have been easier if Kartik had not been so stupidly noble and had taken him to bed last night. Everything about this situation would have been easier if Kartik was not so idiotically selfless in everything he did. 

It would be easier to hate him.

“Do you know where Qabid is?” he asked her in Mahanite. “The Akhtari King’s physician.”

“In the west corridor,” she answered, her eyes raking into him. “The third room to the left.”

“Thank you,” he said, rushing past her.

Once he reached the specified location he knocked three times on the heavy wooden door and waited for thirty excruciating seconds for Qabid to appear. The old man opened the door cautiously and regarded him with surprise.

“Your majesty?” he questioned.

“It’s Kartik he…” he paused, feeling the blood creep to his cheeks. How could he tell this man, who no doubt loved Kartik as a son, that he had allowed Kartik to sleep on the floor, causing him to hurt his shoulder? 

Luckily he did not have to say anything Qabid merely asked “Is it his shoulder?”

“Yes. Please he seems like he is in a lot of pain.” Aman was surprised at anxiety that had caught in his throat. 

_ I should not care what happens to him.  _ But he did care and he knew that either directly or indirectly it was his fault.  _ I could have at least insisted that he slept on the other side of the bed, the gods know, it was big enough for both of us. _

Qabid went back inside to get his medicinal salves and supplies before closing the door behind him.

“Was there any bruising or redness on his shoulder?” asked Qabid as they walked towards the bridal chamber. 

“I did not have time to check,” Aman admitted. “I came here as soon as I could.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence. Aman observed that with every step Qabid seemed to become more agitated. 

Kartik was lying amongst the disordered sheets, a sheen of sweat now on his body. 

“Kartik,” muttered Qabid coming to him. “What happened?”

Kartik’s eyes found Aman’s, they gave him a weighted look before turning to the old physician “I thought you did not want details.” he gave Qabid a sheepish grin.

Of course, Aman knew what Kartik meant to get across. When Qabid turned and raised an eyebrow at him Aman turned his eyes to the floor in equal parts grateful, ashamed and annoyed, hoping he came across as adequately embarrassed.

“Help me turn him over,” instructed Qabid, Aman went forward to help. 

With Kartik on his stomach, Aman was now finally able to see the hurt shoulder in question. There was a large ghastly scar there, the remnants of most likely being impaled by a weapon. It had healed well externally, but it was clear that some of the muscles and ligaments were prone to tearing. Even now Aman could see multicoloured bruises forming between the mottled lumps of flesh.

Qabid took out three salves from his medicinal bag. He began rhythmically massaging them on Kartik’s shoulder, in firm yet gentle motions. All the while scolding the king as if he were a boy. The worried expression remained on the physician's face. 

Aman remembered when he was younger, he had caught a fever and had been bedridden for a week. He remembered how his father, Shankar had stayed by his bedside, holding his hand, feeding him with his own hands, changing the wets towels on his forehead himself. He had worn the same expression that Qabid wore right now.

_ He loves him.  _ Aman realised.  _ Just as my father loved me. _

Aman felt his throat tighten. Tears stung his eyes. 

“Do not worry,” came a voice.

Aman looked up to see that Qabid was looking at him as he was finishing the binding, to keep the newly massaged shoulder in place.

“Do not worry,” he repeated. “Kartik tears his muscles when he is reckless. Try to be a little careful when you...try to be more careful next time. I suppose I should tell you he is supposed to use these salves every night before he sleeps. I can’t always be there to remind him. Can I trust you to help him remember since he is clearly not capable of remembering himself? Even though I specifically told him they would be in his trunk-”

“I remember most nights,” came Kartik’s mumbled protest. 

“Just not last night?” questioned Qabid, then before Kartik could answer, he said “Actually don’t answer that question.”

“I will remind him,” Aman promised. “Just let me know what I need to do.”

So Qabid showed him the salves used, and explained the purpose of each of them. There was one to alleviate the pain, another to relax the muscles and another that helped with the healing. He even showed Aman the way to massage his shoulder if it ever came to be that it got too painful for Kartik to do it himself.

“Rest for a few hours,” Qabid suggested softly getting up from the bed. “You have a few hours before day break and the delegation from Eskabad to arrive.”

Eskabad was a kingdom to the North of Mahan and Akhtar. They were coming to renew their treaties with both countries and perhaps negotiate a few new terms and send their tributes for this marriage.

“Thank you Qabid,” Kartik said, a serene smile on his features.

When Qabid left Aman stood unsure of what to do. He could not go back to sleep; that was for certain, all the slumber seemed to have left his body.

“Do you need me to do anything?” he asked Kartik.

“Why are you helping me?” Kartik asked, the regretful expression on Kartik’s face only seconds later told Aman that he had not wanted to ask this question and merely spoke what was on his mind. 

But Aman answered him anyway.

“I may not like you,” said Aman. “But I am not heartless or without honour. You said so yourself, I will not strike a man, or leave him helpless when he is down.”

Kartik regarded him before he tried to stand.

“No,” said Aman. “Qabid says you must rest for at least a few hours.”   
  


“And you trust his judgment?”

“More than I trust yours.” he paused. “In fact,” he dragged one of the chairs that stood by the study and planted it firmly at Kartik’s bedside. “I am staying right until day break.”

“I don’t think I will be able to rest with you looking at me constantly like you’re trying to find the best place to stab me with your sword.”

“I already know the best place.”

His shoulder. Kartik realised it too and gave him a smile as if to let him know that he knew exactly what he was thinking and found it funny.

“Besides,” said Aman. “I have better things to do than stare at you.”

“Really?” asked Kartik, an old playfulness returning to him. “Like what?”

“Rereading Mahan’s treaty with Eskabad for one,” he paused. “Do you have the Akhtari-Eskabadi treaty here, I might as well go through seeing that you are bedridden.”

“It should be in my trunk, if not the servants may have put it on the study.”

Having produced the treaties Aman sat himself down on the chair beside Kartik. They spent the next few hours in silence, broken by the occasional discussion of certain points in both treaties. It felt like something akin to normalcy. 

_ I could get used to this. _ Aman thought.

_ No  _ the voice of vengeance caution.  _ He will die in six months, you do not want to get used to it. _

~~~

Kusum had wanted to tell Rajini the truth. Just as she was on the cusp of doing so, telling her about Rakesh about their plan, about who she really was but she had been interrupted by the serving boy. Which was probably for the best.

Kusum had come to trust the other woman, in ways she could not even trust Rakesh. But she also knew Rajini was also a woman who valued honesty. What would she do if she knew that Kusum was not who she said she was? How would she look upon this deception?

Kusum thought back to her last conversation with Rakesh.  _ I am a traitor not only to Mahan now, but Akhtar too.  _

_ “We can use this union to our advantage”  _ she had told him. Once she had told him of her plan, as half baked as it was, he had smiled and picked her up and spun her around, like he used to in the early days when they had been happy.

Kusum was now with Sunaina, getting ready to see the delegation from Eskabad. There were other women in the Queen’s chambers, handmaidens and noblewomen alike, gossiping about the wedding, well more specifically the wedding night. 

“I’ve heard,” said one woman. “That King Aman was so ardent in his love making that he managed to re-damage an old war wound of King Kartik’s.”

Her companion frowned. “How did you know? No one was allowed near the room…”

“The King Aman asked my serving girl where he could seek Qabid as she was walking past. He was according to her, out of sorts, barely dressed.”

Her companion giggle, seemingly pleased “I did not realise the Mahanite King had it in him. They say he is frigid.”

“If I had a man like Kartik I don’t think I would remain frigid for long,” said the woman. “Too bad he takes no interest in women.”

“I think I prefer it this way,” said her companion. “The idea of both of them…”

Kusum did not like those words, she could not listen to them. It was one thing to good-naturedly tease someone about their bedroom activities, but another thing entirely to fantasise and take pleasure in imagining what two people did together. 

Rakesh used to do something like that when he found out that Kusum was also interested in women. 

_ No,  _ she thought  _ it’s best not to think of that. You will only get hurt all over again. _

Kusum was too lost in her thoughts that she did not notice that someone had sat down beside her until that person spoke in a low whisper. 

“You have changed so much in the last ten years.”

Kusum turned to see the old woman Vahi was sitting beside her. She found she could not speak.

“Do not worry,” said Vahi quietly. “I will not tell a soul.”

“How did you know?” asked Kusum.

“Your eyes,” said Vahi. “When you are as old as I am you see the beauty in people’s eyes rather than their bodies or faces. Your eyes are the kindest I’ve seen.”

Kusum looked back at the embroidery on her dress.  _ You are wrong.  _ She wanted to say.  _ I have no kindness. Not as much as you think. _

“I often wondered what became of you,” said Vahi softly. “You were always the brightest, and cleverest of the pupils, it is a pity the raiders came when they did. It warms my heart to see you, a great lady in the court of Mahan, the closest companion to the queen mother.”

“It warms my heart to see you too,” said Kusum.

“Is that why you avoided me during your last visit here?” Vahi laughed. “Do not worry, I will not give you away. Whatever your deception is I am sure it is for an honorable cause.”

“And if it is not?”

“You are not capable of that,” said Vahi.

Vahi touched her cheek lightly, looking at her with such love that it left a sour taste in Kusum’s mouth. Before she could reply Sunaina approached them.

“Come,” said Sunaina. “The meeting with Eskabad is to begin soon.”

  
  



	21. Saapki Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am once again dedicating this chapter to Devika for her amazing art for Kartik and Aman's wedding in CH 19. The art is linked at the end of the chapter, please go and give it a like and a comment. Also special thanks to Mehan for letting me use their name for the Queen of Eskabad.

They placed a myth at our necks

They hailed us kings worthy

The mountains rise in their salutes

As they listened to words of mercy

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Since Aman had not allowed any of the servants near their room, lest he should behead them, they had to dress by themselves. This time the awkward tension that had been present during their wedding night had eased somewhat due to the morning’s incident. 

Kartik had gone asleep thinking Aman hated him thoroughly. So deep was this belief that when he woke up with a sharp pain in his shoulder after a night plagued by his old demons, he had been surprised when the other man had helped him up on the bed, brought Qabid to him and promised he would remind him about the salves. 

If Kartik did not know any better he would have said that Aman had come to care for him. But he  _ did _ know better and he knew Aman was only doing this out of a sense of respect and honour. That did not stop the feelings of love that had been steadily growing in him from burgeoning. 

Dressing himself was not hard, he had been doing it by himself ever since he was a child unless it was for important occasions which called for more intricate clothing. Kartik found, today, he could do the lower half of his clothing just fine. Even his undershirt he could manage since the material was light and fine. 

But the pain in his shoulder and Qabid’s tight binding ensured that putting on his sherwani was a whole ordeal in itself. After struggling for a good minute he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Aman standing behind him, his own sherwani still unfastened, hanging by his sides.

Wordlessly Aman took the sherwani from him and helped him into it, even fastening it for him, something that Kartik could have done for himself. This surprised Kartik, just as many things had that morning. 

For a moment Kartik remembered when they had met for the second time, at the steps of Okhine’s temple. When they had undone each other’s kalgi’s because Aman could not undo his own. He wondered if Aman remembered too. 

“Next time,” Aman said, lacing up the final fastening. “You can take the bed.”

“And you the floor?” Kartik questioned. “The beds will be big enough for both of us, that is if you are comfortable…”

“I do not mind,” Aman had said quietly. “I should have let you take the other side anyway, last night...”

He spoke no more. But his tone belied an unspoken apology, a strange sort of compassion.

_He feels guilty,_ Kartik realised. _I was right to trust him. If he can find it in his heart to still show compassion after knowing I killed his father, after all that happened last night. He will look after my people when I am gone._

That thought had put him at ease more than anything.

“We’re late” Aman spoke looking at the window of their room noting the position of the sun.

“Good,” Kartik replied. “It will help us keep up pretenses.”

They had come out of their room together, the old treaties in their arms. As they made their way to the inner sanctuary of the temple where they would hold council with Eskabad Kartik’s mind turned to the treaty. 

Eskabad and Akhtar had friendly relations. Kartik remembered the first and last time he had met the Queen of Eskabad, Mihan. He had been sixteen and she had been twenty-one. On first impression she had seemed as stern and as cold as the mountain ranges, she ruled over. But after a few glasses of wine and three dry jokes on Kartik’s part, he quickly changed his perception of her. 

She was as loud, as brazen and as fierce as any warrior. In fact, as their conversation had progressed, he felt warmed by her presence, and comparing her to the larger burly warriors that stood guard in their furs and bone, he knew her also to be far more dangerous than they could ever be. More dangerous than he himself could ever be.

He had been excited to see her again, after eight years, their letters to each other read more like letters between friends than between rulers. And he had felt proud to call her that, a friend.

She had been invited as a guest at their wedding, but had sent word that she could not attend but sent her cousin Ugdam, her most trusted advisor and second-in-command on her behalf. 

Aman characteristically had not said much of his own relationship with Mihan. Kartik knew they had met, the Queen had told him so and had spoken fondly of the then little boy. 

But Kartik, under half-closed eyes, as he had been resting his shoulder, had noted a frown on Aman’s face as he had read through the Mahanite treaty with the Northern country. He had asked why and Aman had explained.

In recent times the Mahanite-Eskabadi relations had become rather frayed. Shankar Tripathi  had wanted Eskabad to kneel to Mahan, and become a vassal state which Eskabad would not do. If their Queen was anything to go by they were a proud people and would rather throw themselves in the flames than give up their sovereignty. Thus Shankar’s demands had become more exacting, in the end Eskabad had been presented with an unthinkable ultimatum that ended in them giving Mahan their hallowed Harishkan mountain ranges. 

The Harishkan ranges had never in the history of this world been ruled by anyone other than the Eskabadi, the mountains were sacred for it was believed that the Eskabadi god Harish had been born there. For them to hand these mountains, to put their freedom over their faith, spoke volumes of their pride and defiance.

“It was dishonourable of him,” Aman had said. “I want to give them back.”

“You have the opportunity today,” Kartik had said.

“Kaali said…”

“Kaali can go fuck himself,” when he realized that Aman had been taken aback at that he checked his words. “I apologise, I know he is important to you but he is no longer regent, he does not rule anymore. But you do, you are the king, not only of Mahan but Akhtar. If you want to give the mountain ranges back do it. None will think less of you for it.”

Aman had nodded but had given away none of his thoughts and as they walked towards the inner sanctuary of the temple Kartik found himself wondering about them.

They were the last to arrive in the council room. This fact seemed to be noted by all who were present. Some courtiers, gathered around the pillars, were smiling, others whispering amongst themselves. Two thrones were erected before the statue of Okhine and at either side of the thrones various chairs so that their closest advisors could also sit. Kartik looked up to see Devika raising an eyebrow at him. He pretended not to notice as he and Aman took their places.

The doors of the sanctuary were opened to reveal a tall broad-shouldered man, with fearsome eyes only accentuated by a large gristly scar that took over a whole side of his face. This Kartik knew to be Ugdam. 

He was flanked by ten warriors, two carrying the standards of Eskabad, three silver stars on a black banner, another two carrying large chests.  _ The marriage tributes.  _ Kartik surmised. 

They bowed before the two kings. Ugdam rose and met their gaze before a sweet smile graced his frightening features.

“It has been a long time since I have met either of you.” he started. “You have both grown.”

“And you have not changed.” said Aman. 

“How is the Queen?” asked Kartik. 

“She apologises for not being able to be here, she speaks of both of you fondly, however there has been extensive damage to one of the mountains and presiding villages because of a star fall. She must see to it.”

“Of course,” Aman said. “A ruler is nothing without the people. They come before anything else.”

Ugdam eyed both of them quizzically. “We are sorry we arrived late for the wedding. A snowstorm had us delayed however Eskabad is grateful that our two greatest allies have finally been reconciled by love. To show our gratitude the nation presents you with gifts.”

The two warriors came forth bearing the chests and lay them at the feet of both kings. The chests were opened. In one chest the finest furs and winter garments, the other three great diamonds and two necklaces of bone.

The necklaces were not of ordinary bone. Kartik had heard legends of mythical beasts, with serpent-like bodies, their scales made of hardened flame, and three great horns on their head. The Saapki, they were called, born from flame and dwelled in the icy mountainous regions of Eskabad. Their bones were not the usual white bones present in many creatures, but had a strange opalescent tint to them, every colour in the world encapsulated in alternating veins.

“I thought they did not exist,” said Kartik. 

“These are bones of the last Saapki killed almost three hundred years ago,” explained Ugdam. “We have kept its bones preserved, each family has a piece of it, the rest only gifting it to those who have earned glory.”

“How have we earned glory?” asked Aman.

“By bringing your countries to peace,” Ugdam gave another smile. “I have known both of you as boys. I did not realise that one day I would see the two of you married. Yet now that I have seen it I cannot imagine it any other way. Glory is not only earned in war, the greatest glory is found in making peace with our enemies, for that Eskabad salutes you.”

With that Ugdam pressed his fist firmly to his chest, in the Eskabadi salute. His warriors followed suit. 

Kartik and Aman bowed their heads in acknowledgment. 

“We will wear them with honour.” 

The necklaces were brought up and placed around their necks. A silence, laden with awe had swept over the room. No doubt the people present thought they lay witness to a grand historical event. 

Kartik had never thought of Kingship as something glorious or magnificent. But he could not deny at this moment, with the bones of a mythical creature at his neck, he felt nothing short of the word legendary.

Eventually, chairs were brought forth and Ugdam sat down along with the warriors. The pomp and pageantry had ended and the meeting had begun in earnest.

During the discussions most of the noblemen and women filed in and out. Most, of course, had only wanted to see the pomp and display of the nation's meeting. The ones who stayed were either highly ranked in court or curious about the treaty for their own personal gain. 

They had decided to completely rewrite the treaty, seeing that Mahan and Akhtar were now one nation. The scribes stood ready to detail the suggestions and make notes. Then they will work on drafts which would be overseen by various advisors and in the end the kings themselves.

No treaty negotiation was ever easy. And this one was no exception. While most terms were easily dismissed, there were two main issues to be discussed, the food supplies, silk and cotton from Mahan and Akhtar to Eskabad in exchange for precious minerals and a tribute of goats and the re-establishing of borders near at the North of Mahan, specifically the highly valued Harishkan mountain range. 

“Akhtar is willing as always to send forth a tenth of our food supply,” said Devika. “Assuming that our farms produce as much food as we did this year.”

“Mahan is willing to do the same for the coming harvest,” said Keshav. 

“There are only so many goats and horses we can spare in exchange,” said Ugdam. “Our people are less inclined to mine seeing that we now have to dig deeper for the jewels and gold and silver.”

“Are you saying,” started Kaali. “That you will rescind your trade and still expect us to provide you with food?” 

“No, we only ask that the demands lessen,” Ugdam said. “For  _ you _ the matter of jewels, goats, and horses are a matter of pleasure, for  _ us _ the food you provide us is a matter of survival.”

Eskabad was the main supplier of precious materials such as gold, silver and many jewels. It would be a great loss, but it was not one that could not be circumvented. Kartik looked at Aman, they had discussed this in their room, they had expected that Eskabad would ask for this. Aman met his eyes and nodded.

“No Ugdam is right,” said Kartik. “We have been selfish, you have been an ally to both our nations despite everything. Therefore I elect to agree to those terms. You may send a lesser tribute but our food supply will remain steady. In fact I am sure that we can spare some more, now that peace has been attained between our two nations and our farms are not turned into battlefields.”

There was a low murmur throughout the council room but it was silenced Aman spoke.

“I second my husband’s judgement,” his voice was firm and unwavering. “Our ancestors have been far too greedy. We have no need for that many great jewels. And goats and horses we have in plenty you make keep them.”

“Speaking of the greed of ancestors-” started Ugdam.

“You wish to speak of my father’s acquisition of Harishkan?” interrupted Aman. “My father played false taking it from you. Does your Queen want it back?”

There was a silence in the room, Kartik’s own heart started beating furiously. This brazen question he knew was calculated to incite a response from Ugdam. 

“We are a proud people, Your Majesty,” replied the Queen’s cousin. “By trickery or not it was given as a gift. We do not ask for it back only that our people be granted safe passage to the covens of Harish on the Southern Slopes.”

Kartik felt his breath catch in his throat, his muscles tightened, the tension inflicting more pain on his shoulder. He could feel the tension in the air from all around as Aman’s brows furrowed in concentration. Finally, the other King spoke:

“Then Harishkan is yours,” said Aman. “What my father did was not honourable. But I am not him.”

Aman's smile then was a small private one, and Kartik breathed a sigh of relief wondered how long Aman had waited for this very moment.

~~~

_ He is kind. _ Kartik had said and Devika had not believed it. She knew it now to be true. 

The first time when she had seen it was when he had danced and laughed with the little pockmarked girl, Sarai. The second was last night at the wedding when he had avoided the whole bedding ceremony which she knew Kartik would not have been able to go through. And third, was now when he had granted Eskabad the Harishkan ranges in good faith.

Devika had had her doubts about the marriage, but she found them dispelled. 

When the meeting was adjourned, the Eskabadi had returned to their tents and the rest of the courtiers had departed. The only people left were the two kings, and their closest advisors. Still, Devika noted, despite the marriage, there was a firm divide between them. Aman was deep in conversation with Kaali as Keshav and Rajini though silent were listening in. While Kartik and Parvaaz were going through the notes from the scribes who had taken down their arguments and discussions, they would prove to be the basis for the new treaty. 

This was not what an alliance looked like. They needed to work together. So Devika got up from her chair and approached the other king. She could feel Kartik looking on at her, no doubt wondering what exactly she was planning. 

The stocky bearded man that was Kaali, Aman’s regent, noted her movement before the others. Devika had decided long ago that she did not like him, but Aman seemed to trust him and from what she heard he had been instrumental in the king’s upbringing and a close friend to the royal family of Mahan, so she kept her opinion to herself and smiled pleasantly at him.

The others were also aware of her presence but she paid them no heed and went to Aman.

“For a man who threatened to have me imprisoned or killed at our first meeting,” she started. “You proved to be strangely compassionate.”

“That’s Devi’s way of telling you she likes you,” came Kartik’s voice from behind her, he had gotten up and was now making his way towards Devika. Parvaaz came with him the scribe's notes in his hands.

Aman shrugged his shoulders “It was always a term in the treaty I wanted to repeal, my father’s actions were not honourable when he acquired the Harishkan ranges, it does not belong to Mahan.”

“Or Akhtar,” added Parvaaz. “It is strange, we have been sundered for so long I can’t get used to the idea that we are now one nation.”

Kartik, turning to Parvaaz. “We should start from here then, in this very room then. Perhaps you and Keshav could work through sifting through it together picking out the key terms.”

“Yes,” said Keshav. “And Devika could probably work together with Kaali and my father, with the construction of it.” he turned apologetically to his sister. “I’m sorry you will most likely have no role until the very end.”

Rajini shrugged. “My domain is war. I find treaties boring anyway.”

There were wry smiles exchanged. This was a start.

“The treaty was well negotiated,” Kaali said, addressing both Aman and Kartik, now that the latter stood with them. “Though I feel like you were a little lenient with the terms as I was explaining to Aman-”

“Leniency is a king’s greatest virtue,” said Kartik. “Or so the great Akhtari poet Iqbal says.”

Kaali good-naturedly clapped Kartik on the shoulder “Poems are not the same as ruling.”

Kartik winced. Kaali had applied pressure on his bad shoulder. Even so Kartik did not usually wince at such a small amount of pressure. Well at least on normal days. It was then Devika realised then that there was some truth to the rumours about the wedding night that had spread across practically the whole village of Kashatr.

But the wince was soon replaced by a large smile, he mimicked Kaali’s gesture clapping his shoulder in turn before saying “And ruling is not the same as a regency my friend.”

Kaali laughed heartily at that, but Devika saw the barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes, and she knew Kartik had touched upon a sensitive chord. But no she was not here to ponder upon whatever this man was up to. Aman clearly trusted him and that should be enough for her.

She turned back to Aman.

“I misjudged you at our first meeting,” Devika said to Aman and she meant it. “I did not want this marriage but I see that it has brought about good.” But she had also seen the way they had looked at each other. It was a marriage of convenience, yes, but she knew Kartik like she knew the back of her hand. She knew now that he not only respected Aman, but bit by bit, he was giving him his heart. She then gave the Mahanite king what she hoped was a piercing look. “Even so if you dare hurt Kartik I will disembowel you and feed you to the dogs.”

Aman looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time; his eyes flickered momentarily between her and Kartik. But as ever he kept his emotions guarded. 

“Devi, I think you’re scaring him,” said Kartik laughing putting an arm around her shoulder. “Besides he would never do that and if he did it is probably within reason.”

“You’ve been married for one day and he already has you wrapped around his finger, marriage truly does change people” she extricated herself from Kartik’s hold. “I wash my hands clean of this man. Aman, I wish you good fortune with keeping this idiot from getting himself killed.”

“You will need it,” chimed in Parvaaz. 

Kartik raised both his hands as if surrendering “I’m being flayed alive by my own advisors, may the gods save me.”

  
Devika watched as Aman ventured at a smile, his eyes were on Kartik now, shining with amusement and...tenderness. The smile and the warmth were fleeting however, replaced by his usual stoniness. But it had been there and Devika had seen it, and Kartik had brought it out. 

_ No he will never hurt Kartik. _

_ ____________________ _

[Devika's art](https://www.instagram.com/p/CAFccJoFD0K/?igshid=lfreaw0e57n8) please go ahead, check it out and give it a like.


	22. The Ghosts of Our Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rushed this chapter please forgive the mistakes <3\. Dedicated to Mehan once again for galaxy braining with the last scene.

I have loved you from the first

Your touch is engraved upon me

They are scars from kind hands

Ones no one else can see

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

The treaty took a total of three days and two redrafts until it was deemed fit for signing. At the end of it Ugdam had drawn both kings in his arms, embracing them with an affection that was almost brotherly.

“Tonight we drink!” he had announced. “I have brought the finest cask of Eskabadi beer.”

Kartik had heard rumours of Eskabadi beer, about its strength. It was said that one glass could knock a grown man unconscious. He had never tried it before and that was enough to entice him to accept on behalf of everyone. He was going to die in six months, at least they will not say that he died before he tasted Eskabadi beer.

It was agreed that the royal family members and the inner circle of advisors, would meet at Ugdam’s tent later that night. But until then they had many hours to spare. It was a rare thing in the business of kingship to have spare time. Parvaaz and Keshav had resolved to visit the temple’s library, whereas Rajini said she had business elsewhere. Kaali wished to rest before then. 

Devika did not say but Kartik noted that she often spent her spare time speaking with Ravi or reading through old laws (for fun, a notion which Kartik still could not make sense of).

This left Kartik and Aman alone. Usually, this would be an excellent opportunity for married couples to spend their time together, but Kartik knew long before Aman had accepted the marriage proposal this would not be like most marriages. Even so they had to keep up pretenses. 

They two of them walked through the temple grounds, hand in hand, as novices and worshippers looked on. They were smiling, talking, and laughing. In spite of everything, their conversations came easily. It felt almost like a friendship. Almost.

Shankar’s ghost was never too far off, trailing their every movement, casting shadows in every gesture, movement, every word. But that did not matter. As long as they looked happily married to everyone else, the shadows were not relevant. Even so, Kartik made a point of trying to dispel them by telling Aman ridiculous stories about his childhood, if only in order to see him smile again. 

“I was poisoned as a child you know,” said Kartik.

“Were you really such an insufferable little brat as a child?” asked Aman good-naturedly. “I see nothing has changed there.”

“I was three then,” said Kartik smiling. “I was a terror in my later years, but back then I don’t think I knew how to light a match even if I tried.”

“Well you’re not dead so I assume it did not work.”

“By a stroke of luck, the poison turned out to be too old to do much harm,” Kartik grimaced. “I was bedridden for a week though, they say my father watched over me.”

_His father._ The father he had lost to drink and depravity after the death of his mother. The father who had turned into the monster that lay waste to his body, riddling them with scars.. 

Aman’s smile had turned sad and Kartik wondered if he was remembering Shankar.

It was then that Kartik spied a figure of a young girl rushing towards them in a flurry of grey robes before he could register who it was, the girl had wrapped her arms around Aman’s waist. 

Kartik then recognised her. Sarai, the little girl who had danced with Aman at the Autumn Festival. Aman gave her an indulgent smile before wrapping his arms around her. 

“I’ve been in Kashatr in three weeks,” Aman said once she pulled away. “Not once have I seen you, I thought you had forgotten me.”

Kartik felt something stir in the recesses of his heart at the sound of Aman’s voice filled with unadulterated fondness. 

The girl looked up at him grinning. “I was busy. I am a novice at the temple now. Anyway you may not have seen me but I saw you,” she said firmly, she then lowered her voice. “I snuck into the wedding.”

Aman laughed at that.

“Of course you would,” he patted her hair lightly. “Did you like it?”

“It was beautiful,” she said, then she paused and drew something out of her robes. “I wasn’t allowed at the feast but I wanted to give you this.”

She placed a small carved bone figure of a lion with eagle wings in hands.

“I know it's it not fancy or made of gold or gems but I wanted to give it to you, to say thank you.”

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Aman. “Did you carve yourself?”  
  


“Yes.”

“You have talent.”

The little girl grinned at the praise and Kartik could not help but smile, his heart wrenching, twisting itself in time to an emotion that held both pain and happiness. 

He had always wanted a child, his own daughter or son. Someone he could love and cherish unconditionally. He would not make the mistakes his father did. He had vowed one day would give his child everything that the gods had withheld from him. But he could not do that now. Not with death in the near horizon.

_What would it be like_ he wondered _If we were not Kings, married for convenience sake. If he did not hate me. If there were no wars or death between us. If we were just two men, as we were in the temple. What would it be like to start a family with him? To raise our own son or daughter._

He caught his thoughts before they could spiral downwards into something more painful. 

“You two seem to have a lot to talk about,” said Kartik and Aman turned to him as if he had forgotten he was there. That hurt too. “I think I will go for a bit of a walk in the forests and let you two talk.”

“Be careful,” said Aman softly, his eyes traveling to Kartik’s shoulder.

The concern for his shoulder was something Kartik found rather amusing. In fact if it came down to it he could write a poem on all the ways he found it amusing and ironic. For one Aman seemed to care for his shoulder more than he cared for the person attached to it.

“You should kiss his cheek.” suggested Sarai. “My mother always kisses father’s cheek before he leaves for work, she says it would keep him safe.”

If Aman was taken aback by the suggestion he did not show it. Which was all the better, many worshippers were looking at them expectantly.

So Aman reached up, placed a hand on his shoulder before standing on his toes, placing his lips ever so lightly on Kartik’s cheek. His lips were gone before Kartik could truly register it. Yet still, the places where they touched burned like wildfire, spreading across his whole body.

He could feel it long after, even against the cold winter air.

~~~

In the last three months despite always being busy, Rajini somehow always found the time to help Kusum train. _“You don’t have to waste your time on me.”_ Kusum would say. Rajini would simply shrug her shoulders and proceed with the training. These sessions had become a lifeline for her. The ease of movement, bodies dancing, moving against each other in perfect precision. Despite her nervousness around the other woman it was the only sense of normalcy she could find these days.

Kusum learned quickly. She was an apt student, moldable and compliant, yet even so all that was tempered with by her own judgment and instincts.

_“Had you taken up training earlier, you could have rivaled even me?” Rajini had once said as they had finished their session._

_“As far as I am concerned I can still yet rival you given the time,” she had said it with a wicked grin that Rajini had never seen before, but had now come to love._

They were training together now. They had a few precious hours before their presence will be required at Ugdam’s tent. They had been going through the finer points of close combat with a dagger. 

There was game they played together at the end of every session. 

_Kill the teacher,_ they called it. The aim was for Kusum to put Rajini in such a position that she would not be able to wheedle her way out of. Kusum fought fiercely, she fought passionately and she fought smartly, but as of yet she was unable to best Rajini.

But there was something that disconcerted Rajini, something that ate away at her mind, gnawing at it piece by piece until it consumed her. She could not forget the bruises at Kusum’s throat. _Who did it? Why? Why would Kusum not tell her?_

In this moment of distraction Rajini suddenly felt her legs give way under and before she knew it, she was lying on her back, a knife at her throat, Kusum’s body pressed against hers, a wicked grin on the other woman’s face. 

_The teacher it seemed had just been killed._

“The greatest warrior of Mahan has been bested by an untrained woman,” said Kusum laughing. Rajini never knew laughter to be sweeter. 

“I was distracted,” Rajini grumbled.

Kusum’s features became absolutely serious in perfect mimicry of Rajini “Third rule of combat, there is only you and your opponent. Nothing else is important.”

“I never thought I would see the day when my own words would be thrown back at me.”

Kusum rose and bowed with a flourish “And thus the student surpasses the master.”

Rajini saw the opportunity. Kusum was distracted by her own victory. With a quick feline grace she steadied her dagger and pounced. This time it was Kusum pinned beneath her, dagger poised at her throat. Rajini smiled at her.

“Seventh rule of combat,” she said sweetly. “Never ever think you’re better than anyone else. They may yet surprise you.”

Kusum looked up at her, her dark eyes glittering, her mouth slightly parted, her chest heaved beneath the armor, and the beautiful lines of her neck were more prominent than ever. Rajini wanted nothing more than to bend down and kiss her.

Before she could act on her no doubt disastrous instincts however Rajini’s ears pricked at the sound of leaves rustling. She spun around and aimed her dagger at the source of the noise. But as always her aim missed. And for once she was glad it did. The cursing that emanated from the forest belonged to a familiar voice. It would not bode well if she accidentally killed her cousin’s husband, the King of both Akhtar and Mahan, Kartik Singh.

He emerged from greenery Rajini’s dagger in his hand, an annoyed frown gracing his features.

“A meter closer,” he said toying with her dagger. “I would have been a dead man,” he noted the both of them and his annoyed expression became both embarrassed and apologetic. “Was I interrupting something?”

Rajini realised that Kusum was still straddled beneath her. Clearing her throat she rose and helped Kusum up. 

“We were training,” she explained. “Shouldn’t you be with my cousin doing whatever married couples do in their honeymoon period.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but your cousin isn’t exactly the amorous type.” said Kartik, he handed Rajini back her dagger, then he smiled at Kusum. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Kartik.”

He held out his hand to her and she looked at it, or more specifically the gold bangle that adorned his wrist. Rajini had seen it before. It was Sunaina’s, the bangle worn by every consort of Mahan. 

“I know who you are,” Kusum answered him. 

Kartik coloured at that. Rajni could practically hear his thoughts. _I’m a fool_ they seemed to say _Everyone knows that._

“And you are?” Kartik ventured, taking back his hand.

“Kusum, excuse me,” said Kusum. “I promised Sunaina that I would be with her, to help her dress for tonight.”

She took up her things and left the two of them together.

“Did I say something wrong?” asked Kartik.

“No,” Rajini assured him. “I think…” she paused. “She doesn’t say it but I think she was in love with Aman. Everyone thought they would marry, she is the daughter of Lord Acharya and the Queen Mother certainly favours her.”

“Oh,” was all Kartik said, Rajini noted as he said this he touched a spot at his cheek. “And what of Aman does he…?”

Rajini interrupted him laughing “Rest assured he’s probably more in love with you than he would ever be with her.”

“I suppose this is where you tell me I must not hurt him or you will come up with some creative way to torture and kill me.”

Rajini regarded him, his expression was thoughtful despite the amusement of his tone. 

“On the contrary,” she found herself saying. “I worry more for you.”

And she knew it to be true even as he grew visibly confused.

“Aman is my cousin,” she explained. “I’ve seen him grow up. The rest of the world may think you are both in love but I know better.” she did not have to say it, she did not have to name Shankar’s ghost, he was there no matter what. “Even so I am glad. I have not seen him this happy since he was a boy.”

“You mean to tell me he was more of a glowering sullen prick before we met. I did not think that was possible.”

Rajini found herself laughing again. There was a certain ease that came in talking with Kartik, it was almost easy to forget that once she had hated him as much as Aman had. 

~~~

Aman did not like drinking. He never did. Most people called it restraint or discipline on his part. But in reality, he was not very good at handling anything remotely alcoholic. He had wanted to refuse Ugdam’s offer, but that would have been against the rules of diplomacy, so he contented himself to sipping cautiously at his goblet, looking on, not without envy as Kartik downed his third along with Chaman and Kaali. Rajini. Parvaaz and Devika were on their second. His mother did not drink as a rule so there was no competition there.

Even _Keshav_ was better than he was at handling the wine. He was on his fourth glass and he was still able to talk with clarity. 

Ugdam and his warriors proved to be the most sober of them all despite taking at least five glasses each. In fact Ugdam’s speech was almost perfect as he recounted a story of his Queen and cousin Mihan.

“When she was a little girl, around eleven about this tall,” Ugdam’s hand was dangerously close to the floor. “She fought a bear and one.”

“I do not believe you,” said Devika skeptically.

“Hush child,” said Chaman fondly, he and Devika had become close over the course of drafting the treaty. “Let him tell his tale. It may be more true than you think.”

Ugdam grinned, “During the summer solstice our warriors would go out and hunt. In Eskabad once someone turns seventeen they would join the hunting party and prove their worth.”

“Is that how everyone’s worth is proved?” asked Sunaina. 

“Only the warriors,” said Ugdam. “Anyway, during this solstice, eighteen years ago, in my seventeenth year, I was to go join the hunt. Unfortunately Mihan though only eleven also wanted to join. You see she never left my side in those days, annoying little shit that she was.”

“Does the Queen of Eskabad let you call her that?” asked Kaali, seemingly amused.

“Not in public,” Ugdam replied. “But she is my cousin. I call her what I like.”

“Continue your story please,” pleaded Kusum. 

“Naturally, she was refused permission by her mother, the Queen Reshka. She was sullen for days but made no objection. So the day came when we set off for the great hunt. I felled two mountain boars and a deer. Great feats for any lad of seventeen. I was sure I would come home the hero of the hunt. But of course, that was never meant to happen.”

“Let me guess,” said Rajini. “She somehow managed to sneak into the hunting party and upstaged you.”

Ugdam nodded. “Turns out she was hiding in one of our great game bags that we use for putting in the meat. When a great bear came to our camp, he made for the game bag. We thought we would lose half of our game that day. You would not believe our surprise when we saw a dagger slice through the leather bag from the inside. Out emerged little Mihan, terribly displeased at being abandoned to a bear. With all the fury she could muster, she charged at the creature. I think it was as shocked as we were, the fight was short and not particularly bloody if I am going to be honest.”

“I have to admit,” said Chaman. “This tale was not as tall as I expected.”

“Ah! But it is the truth!”

“How do you find the wines?” Sunaina asked Ugdam.

“Weak as piss!” exclaimed Ugdam. “You get drunk on this grape juice?”

They had not yet had the chance to open the Eskabadi beer, but judging from Ugdam’s reaction to the Akhtari red and the Mahanite gold, Aman realised he had much to fear. 

Kartik’s expression became almost offended. Over the course of the night Aman had come to learn that his husband was rather fond of wine, not overly fond, but enough that he could tell you how a certain cask was made just by its taste. 

“You mean to say your beer is stronger?” Kartik challenged.

“Infinitely.” piped up one of Ugdam’s warriors, a woman in her mid-forties. 

Kartik downed his fourth glass of wine and put it aside.

“Why don’t you open a cask,” he suggested. “I have a mind to try some.”

“Hand me your goblet then,” said Ugdam, seemingly amused.

“No.”

“No?”

“I want to try it in one of your drinking horns.”

The Eskabadi drinking horns were large curved things, larger than any wine glass, intricately carved usually made from animal horns. All the warriors owned drinking horns which were worn at their waists. 

One of the warriors was about to remove one of their horns when Kartik shook his head.

“I want to use Ugdam’s.”

A ripple of amusement and disbelief went through all those gathered. Everyone had one thought on their mind.

_Is he mad?_

For unlike most horns, Ugdam’s was abnormally large, Aman reckoned one could probably fit seven tankards of beer into it. Ugdam looked down at his horn and back up at Kartik.

“Are you sure?” he asked and he seemed completely serious. “The beer is very strong perhaps a smaller-”

“The whole horn,” Kartik confirmed.

Ugdamn shrugged. “Your death.”

“If you manage to make it to your room without Aman’s help,” said Rajini. “I will give you one hundred gold plikars.”

Plikars were the new coinage to be used in the now combined nation of Mahan and Akhtar. A winged lion on one face, an image of two kings on the other.

“I hope you are ready to lose that much,” said Kartik. He turned to Ugdam and held out an expectant hand. 

Ugdam sighed and handed his horn to one of his warriors who opened a cask and filled the horn with beer so dark it was almost black. For a moment Aman wondered how they made it. They had no barley or any other thing that beer was usually made from. It was Eskabad’s best kept secret and it was one that would no doubt never be revealed. 

The horn was handed to Kartik, who held it reverently in his hands admiring the carvings. Three cheers went up from the Eskabadi warriors. Aman could hear a few not-so-discreet bets being placed.

“Do I have your blessings dear husband?” asked Kartik, turning to meet Aman’s eyes.

For a moment Aman did not know how to answer him. _He knows he’s going to die_ Aman realised _and thus he is willing to take risks, live his life to the extremes_. In the end, Aman glowered.

“Rot in hell for all I care.”

Parvaaz laughed at Aman’s response “Did you two quarrel so soon?”

“Not really,” said Kartik. “I think he’s just worried I might die in the process of drinking the beer.” he patted Aman’s cheek affectionately. “If anyone gets to kill me it will be you. Besides it’s probably not as strong as Ugdam claims.”

He placed the rim of the horn to his lips and drank deeply. After his first gulp his expression soured. 

“It seems to be an acquired taste,” he remarked.

“You can always stop drinking,” Sunaina, suggested cautiously.

Out of sheer stubbornness and perhaps not without some pride. Kartik ignored his mother-in-law, brought the horn to his lips again and drank even more deeply than the last time.

All the while Aman watched on with concern. Kartik may doubt the strength of Eskabadi beer but Aman did not, especially since Ugdam had now tensed. Aman may not like Kartik but, even he knew that Kartik dying now would not be ideal. Politically or otherwise.

Thus by the time he was about to take his third swig of the horn, Aman found himself reaching forward, grasping the horn, preventing Kartik from drinking more. 

“Wait a few more minutes,” he suggested.

Kartik regarded him before smiling mischievously “I thought you wanted me to rot in hell. Very well I will wait.”

Everyone waited with him, expecting some sort of response. Kartik himself seemed to relish the attention, making a show of how sober he was. He even tried to engage Keshav in a discussion of the piracy wars on the islands in the continent’s southern islands. 

“They say the Dancing Vipers have risen again from their watery graves, some new captain for their ship” said Kartik.

“Such reports turn up every three years or so,” said Keshav. “Probably some upstart from one of the islands.”

“Well not all upstarts start wars,” said Rajini. “It takes someone of great mettle to do that.”

“Or someone of great stupidity.” scoffed Parvaaz.

Aman too had heard rumour about the Dancing Vipers. He and his inner circle often discussed whether they could have been the third party involved in bringing Mahan and Akhtar to war. But where these thoughts usually lingered in his mind, they seemed to sidle away rather swiftly to be replaced by concerns about the man in front of him.

Kartik seemed a little unfocused, his eyes not quite seeing, nor did he seem to be paying attention. 

The rumours about Eskabadi beer, it seemed, were not completely baseless. It was doing quick work on him.

“Kartik are you okay?” it was Devika who spoke.

Kartik now broken out of his reverie, turned to her and smiled.

“I think I’m ready to drink some more,” 

His speech was already slurred. Before anyone could stop him he drank again from the horn, and it seemed to Aman that he was intent on draining it dry of every drop. 

For a total of ten seconds Aman watched in a state of both horror and fascination as Kartik drank. By now his veins were probably filled with more alcohol than blood. Everyone seemed frozen to the spot watching, waiting for him to stop. He did not.

It was Ugdam who rose from his seat and wrenched the horn away from him, spilling some of the dark substance over Kartik’s clothes. It looked almost as if he had stolen milk from a baby, Kartik glared at Ugdam.

“I could have had more,” he protested, his voice betraying an effort to keep himself from sounding as if the beer had any effect on him. 

“And you could kill yourself,” said Ugdam. “No more.”

Kartik frowned only deepened. “I can’t kill myself,” he said with almost childlike seriousness. “My life belongs to Aman.”

Aman stiffened as Kartik’s words resounded through the tent. All eyes turned to both of them.

Aman tried to regain his composure but he found that he his mind started reeling with all the possibilities that Kartik’s drunken state could bring about. Because it was clear, from the way he spoke, from the words he spoke, he was utterly drunk. If he revealed anything about their deal, about Kartik’s death after six month’s, the whole plan would be in ruins.

“That’s very nice Kartik,” Aman said. “Come on I think it’s time we went back.”

“You said my name.”

With a sudden realisation Aman registered that this was the first time he had addressed Kartik by his name. It had come out soft, like butterfly wings, and dove feathers. It had sounded almost as sweet as honey. Kartik had the biggest grin on his face, as if Aman had handed him the whole world.

“Yes, I said your name-”

“You said it just like the first time, that night,” Kartik’s eyes held a tenderness and longing in them that made Aman’s breath hitch at his throat. “Not Kartik, but my other name. I don’t think I can forget Aman, ever, your touch, your eyes and...Aman your hands…”

“That’s enough,” said Aman, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. “Come on we need to go.”

“You held me and said it was going to be alright.” continued Kartik apparently unable to hear him. “You were on your knees and…”

“Kartik…” Aman objected knowing full well how it must sound to other people. “No.”

There was silence in the room. An audible, sharp intake of breath that Aman recognised to be his mother.

“You said it again.” Kartik’s grin grew wider. “It sounds nice on your tongue, your tongue...it works wonders.”

There was coughing and no doubt sly smiles. Aman’s eyes were focused on Kartik, he was afraid if he looked to the others he might die of embarrassment. He could already feel Kaali’s on him. Stabbing through him, as if they were daggers. 

Kaali had never wanted this marriage. But he never liked it when Aman hid something from him either. Especially something like this.

“Thank you,” said Aman awkwardly. “Come on now we need to-”

“You have a nice smile too. I think I would die happy if I could see it one more time.”

Here they were again, their words revolving around death as their very lives did. For once Aman was glad that his words sounded more bawdy than it actually was. 

“We need to go to our room, you are very drunk.”

“Our room” Kartik echoed. “Do you remember our first nights in that room.”

“It was three days ago, of course, I remember.” 

“You looked so different without all that finery. You looked like how you looked the first time we met. You’re like two different people sometimes. I think I was afraid to touch you. You were more afraid though, weren’t you? I’m sorry, I know you feel guilty, it hurt like hell but it's not your fault.”

Aman did not answer him. He knew what he had to do. He helped Kartik off the chair he was sitting in and slung his arm around his shoulder. He turned red-faced to all those present. Ugdam was barely holding in laughter, Rajini seemed confused and shocked, while Parvaaz seemed thoroughly puzzled. Chaman was smiling as Keshav’s eyes flickered between the two kings. Sunaina’s cheeks were bright red. Aman supposed that no mother wanted to know about her son’s nightly activities. 

But it was Kaali and Devika’s reactions that stayed with Aman. They both looked as if they had been betrayed, as if Aman and Kartik had respectively plunged a dagger in their backs.

“I don’t need help,” said Kartik angrily to Aman, as he teetered off-balance in his arms, apparently remembering Rajini’s bet. “I can’t lose a bet. I’ve never lost a bet.”

“He’s lost at least ten against me,” said Devika, it was said lightly but there was a hidden rage there. “I cannot account for any others.”

“That’s barefaced a lie.” said Kartik.

“So speaks the liar.” she could not seem to control her rage any longer.

“I wish you goodnight,” Aman said curtly, not wishing for the situation to escalate any further. “I have to…”

There was no point in talking; he took their fur-trimmed cloaks wrapping them around both him and Kartik haphazardly. As he repositioned Kartik’s weight on his shoulder, the other man took the liberty to bury his face in the crook of Aman’s neck, nuzzling it affectionately, smiling all the while like a child who had just been given his favourite treat.

A jolt run through Aman’s whole body at the feeling of Kartik’s smooth skin, prickly beard and soft hair, at his bare neck. 

“You’re so warm,” muttered Kartik.

Aman’s cheeks burned and were no doubt a deep shade of scarlet. Without further adieu he ducked out of the tent leading a stumbling Kartik out in the cold winter night.

“Why are we leaving?” Karthik asked. 

“You’re drunk,” answered Aman.

“No not really, I could have more, I’m fine really I can walk.”

“No you can’t.”

“I can.”

“You can’t”

“I can!”

He said it so loudly that some people came out of their tents to look and see what was happening. Aman did not deign to gauge their reactions at seeing a drunk king, instead he turned his steely gaze at Kartik himself.

“Prove it.”

Kartik removed himself from Aman’s shoulder. He only made it three steps before he stumbled. Aman caught him just before he fell flat on his face.

“See,” said Aman. “You can’t.”

Kartik ignored him but he did not object as Aman led him to their room. Once they were inside, Aman sat him down on the bed. Kartik was unusually silent looking at him. Aman found he did not know what to do. 

“Aman?” Kartik finally spoke.

“Yes?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Not wanting to sleep with a horrid stench in the room Aman brought forward one of the washbasins.

“Thank you,” Kartik said. 

With that he wretched into the basin and Aman wondered how long he had been keeping it in. Aman went to the jug of water that stood on the table and poured a glass. Once Kartik had finished his first bout of vomiting Aman handed it to him.

“Rinse,” he told him. “You will thank me later.”

Kartik acquiesced taking the glass. There was a knock on the door. 

“Stay right here,” Aman said.

Aman opened it to see a serving girl, she could have been no older than fifteen, seeing the annoyed expression on Aman’s face she stepped back eyes on the floor.

“I’m sorry I know you don’t like to have servants around the area at night. I only wanted to know if you needed help, I saw him stumbling and I thought-”

Aman breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes actually, I’ve never done this before. Helping someone who is drunk.”

She smiled back at him “You’re lucky I do then.”

He let her inside.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Latasha,” she told him. “My mother calls me Tasha though.”

“Tasha then,” he said. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“Do not worry yourself, your majesty,” she said smiling. “It is best to leave this to someone who knows.”

Aman was regulated to a chair as Latasha went about looking after Kartik, cleaning him up, keeping him warm, speaking words of comfort, as if she was his own mother. Aman watched fascinated as she did all this with tenderness and an experience that a girl so young should not have.

In the end, she took the basin with her.

“Tasha,” said Aman once she was at the door about to leave. “Thank you.”

She turned to him “It is always a pleasure to serve my kings.”

She said no more and left.

Once she was gone Kartik was still sitting on the bed looking at Aman. Well not entirely looking at him. He seemed to have lost focus again.

“I’m sorry I touched that night,” he said after a while. “I hate myself for it. You probably hate me too. I don’t want you to hate me, but it’s...it’s…”

“Inevitable?” asked Aman.

“Yes inevitable.” Kartik paused. “When I fought your father-”

“Kartik,” Aman, despite the rising pain could not keep a touch of softness out of his voice as he said the other man’s name. “I do not want to talk about it.”

“Sorry,”

And with that Aman’s sense of pain at the memory of his father seemed to slip away for Kartik sounded almost… remorseful. 

“I can sleep on the floor again if you like.” Kartik offered.

Suddenly Aman remembered his promise to Qabid. Kartik had been applying the salves on his shoulder by himself for the last three nights, but it was clear he would be too inebriated to do it properly tonight. 

“No chance in hell,” said Aman. “Can you take off your shirt or do I need to do it for you?”

Kartik looked at him as if he had said something amusing.

“Don’t get your hopes up, it's for your shoulder.”

“I know,” said Kartik. “I think I can get it off myself.”

He started to unlace his shirt but got confused and ended up tying the lacing it in more knots. Aman sighed but he could not help smiling at Kartik’s endearingly befuddled expressuon. Aman came forward and undid it for him before slipping it over his head.

Once again he found himself looking at Kartik’s scars. _Not all are from battle._ The phrase repeated itself over and over again but he stopped his thoughts before they turned to curiosity.

He got up and went to get the salves that Qabid had left behind and sat beside Kartik. Carefully he lay the bottles on the bed and gently turned Kartik around a little so that it was easier for him to apply the salves and massage the shoulder.

Aman placed some of the ointment on the palm of his hand and lathered it on to Kartik’s shoulder. At his touch, Kartik breathed sharply before relaxing completely. Aman then then started massaging it the way Qabid had told him.

Kartik’s skin was unusually warm, but under the salve, it felt almost pleasurable to touch. He found it hard to take his hand away.

_You care for him,_ said a voice in his head.

_I am a man of my word, it’s not feelings for this man, I promised Qabid. I feel nothing for him._

Kartik started speaking.

“You are a good man,” he said, his voice low, not entirely eloquent, but still it held its breathless charm. “You're kind to me. It’s one of the reasons why I trust you to look after my people when I’m gone. Well, our people now. I know you will take care of them.” he paused and turned to look at Aman. “Will you miss me when I’m dead?”

Aman did not answer him. He did not need to for it was at that moment that Kartik’s body had slumped forward in a drunken slumber. Aman only just managed to catch before he fell off the bed. 

  
___________________________________________________

Song for Kartik being drunk asscene is [Sweety Tera Drama ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=te779RrQIcY)as well as [Aisi Taisi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSORa7YdR7s) from the movie


	23. Nightshade and Opium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, as you can probably see my updates are no longer every two days. My Uni and Work and starting up so my update schedule may most likely be more every five days. Just letting you all know. Also probably not my best chapter but things will pick up speed in Ch 25 :)

Sleep dear child sleep

Dreams are but a little death

The line between them a narrow string

Tread not recklessly while you have breath

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Kartik woke with searing pain all over his body, a terrible headache, and an overly filled bladder that was practically demanding for some sort of release. One wrong move and he was sure he would wet the bed. There was also an acrid taste that emanated from his own mouth. He knew the symptoms, they were all too familiar to him, he had gotten drunk. 

He tried to get up, but a wave of nausea overwhelmed him, the pain in his muscles flared. He let out an involuntary groan which naturally gave way to voluntary cursing.

“So his majesty has finally risen from his slumber,” came a voice from his bedside. Kartik turned his head to no one other than Aman Tripathi, sitting on a chair.

The other king did not even possess the common courtesy to look at Kartik as he spoke, he was too absorbed in a book, his body slung over the chair with a languid ease that made Kartik, in his current state, envious.

Kartik struggled to rise but managed it.

“What happened?” he asked Aman.

For once Aman looked at him, as always his frigid features were lined with flames of anger. “You do not remember? I’m not surprised. The Eskabadi beer was very strong.”

“Did I do something stupid?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You don’t mince words do you?” Kartik muttered. “Is everyone talking about it?”

“I suppose it would be better if I told you before you heard the rumours.”

“Of course, before that I need to...” he pointed inelegantly at his groin. 

“You almost pissed on our plan and alliance last night, I don’t see how it makes a difference.”

“At least let me _take_ a piss before you start scolding me for it.”

Aman resumed his reading and Kartik, despite the searing headache, got off the bed and went to the privy to relieve himself. As he did his memory of last night came to him in flashes. They were probably not the ones that Aman wanted him to remember. 

He remembered Aman’s eyes looking up at him imploringly as he beseeched him not to drink anymore. He remembered Aman addressing him by his name. He remembered nuzzling his face into the crook of Aman’s neck. Remembered Aman’s hands on his shoulder, his deft relaxing movements as he massaged his shoulder, and the way his touch lingered. 

He remembered how it made him feel. How it still made him feel. The rational part of him knew that what he was feeling was against reason. But he was too far gone to care for it. It felt like music had been injected in his veins, it felt like setting a wildflower aflame. It felt a little like dying. Which was fine by him. If he learned to die enough in these six months, maybe he will be prepared by the end.

He washed his hands and face before returning to the bed, lying back down. 

“I am ready to hear all the ways I have disgraced the combined house of the Singhs and Tripathis.”

Aman looked up from his book. He regarded Kartik once, but thoroughly and closed it, turning around in his chair in order to face him. 

“You need to drink water,” he said. “And eat something. At least that’s what Tasha said.”

“Tasha?”

“The serving girl who came in last night to help you,” Aman was looking at Kartik now. “Why did you drink so much?”

“I felt like it.”

It was clear from Aman’s expression that he did not approve of Kartik’s spontaneous behaviour. Kartik wondered if the other man had ever done anything spontaneous in his life.

Before Aman could say anything, there was a knock on the door, followed by a voice that was strangely familiar to Kartik.

“I have brought food and water,” it was the voice of a young girl. “I wanted to check how things were.”

“Tasha?” Kartik asked Aman in a low whisper. Aman gave him a curt nod before getting off of his chair to open the door.

Kartik finally was able to see the young girl who Aman claimed had looked after him. She was young, most likely in her early teens, with a sweet face and a kinder smile. In her hands was a tray laden with food, a jug of clear water, and freshly made tea. 

“Thank you, Tasha,” Kartik said, trying to muster a smile.

She placed the tray on the table. “Are you feeling well your majesty?”

“Like shit,” he answered honestly. 

“My father used to say that most morning-afters felt like shit,” answered the young girl. 

She did not blush or cower as she let out the curse, which Kartik found was agreeable.

Tasha made a few customary checks, as she plied Kartik with water From what Kartik could surmise from her expertise and the brief mention of her parents, she most likely had to look after a drunkard father. _We have something in common then._ Kartik mentally remarked as he thought of his own father.

When Tasha was finished and turned to leave, it was Aman who stopped her.

“Wait,” he called out. “I want to thank you too. What you did was well above the line of duty.”

Aman turned to the dresser and Kartik knew what he was going to do for he had done it many times himself. 

He watched as Aman perused through the various jewels that lay strewn across the dresser, for half a heartbeat Aman’s hands hovered over the silver earring laden with blue gems, Kartik’s gift. He watched as Aman’s features took on a strange expression before his attention caught a delicate emerald necklace. He picked it up and placed it in the young girl's palms.

“I cannot take this,” she said. 

“I have too many necklaces and not enough neck,” said Aman with a wry smile. “If you do not want it you can always sell it, but it is yours now.”

Tasha clasped the emerald necklace in her hands and bowed before leaving the room.

Once Tasha left Aman’s expression became stern and he turned his eyes towards Kartik. Kartik, despite the rising nausea, took a few sips of water and waited for Aman to start talking.

Aman resumed his seat on the chair and started to relate everything that had transpired the night before while Kartik ate. Everything he said and did was now laid bare in Aman’s almost cutting tone. Of course as Kartik predicted he left out some of the more intimate moments between the two of them, the moments that Kartik seemed to remember with more clarity than anything else. 

As Aman spoke Kartik could feel his cheeks burning as his deeds were recounted. When Aman was finished he was visibly livid.

Kartik ventured at a smile “At least none could doubt that the marriage was consummated. Gods, your mother was there too and your uncle....”

He looked down at the bangle that was at his wrist, the one Sunaina had gifted him. He knew he did not deserve what little love she had given him, but he would be damned if he lost it because of his stupid drunken mouth.

“You’re worried about that!” exclaimed Aman. “You almost revealed everything, ruined everything.”  
  


Kartik could not help but be amused by this. Aman sounded like a child in a tantrum

“On the contrary I think it improves things significantly,” he paused and grimaced. “Gods, did I really say that you were on your knees for me? And that whatever you did to me on our wedding night-” 

Kartik could not help it any longer, he burst out laughing, it was more from embarrassment than finding humour in the situation, though there was a fair bit of the latter as well. 

“You think this is funny?” huffed Aman.“The risk? Did you not think of that?”

_Ler the risks be damned._ He wanted to say, but he did not. In a way he knew Aman was right. He had been reckless. But he also felt that on the other hand it was unfair of him to receive a scolding. _You do not care about me._ He wanted to shout at him. _Only about your precious plan and revenge._

“Are you going to forbid me from drinking?” he asked, the humour bleached from his voice. “You may be the one to kill me in the end but at least let me live a good life until then.”

Aman seemed taken aback by that. He did not speak for a while and only regarded Kartik with those cold dark eyes of his.

“Our people,” he said simply. “Cannot afford to lose their lives over a simple mistake.”

“And what of my life Aman?” Kartik asked. 

“Your life was forfeit when you killed my father.”

“Of course it was.” Kartik’s words came out bitter. 

He was no coward. Death itself was not something he feared. What he did fear was what would happen after he was gone. How will Devika, Qabid, and Parvaaz cope? They had given him more love than he had any right to claim. If the incident with the opium three years ago was anything to go by, his death would ravage them, leaving them as nought but living corpses. He knew Aman would look after their people but he still worried about them. 

Try as he might he was not sure how to come to terms with it. He decided he did not have to, not yet anyway.

He got up, ignoring the pain and the queasiness, he went to his trunk and started taking out his clothes.

“Where are you going?” asked Aman.

“To meet your Uncle and Mother, I have to apologise.”

~~~

Sunaina was taking a walk with Chaman through the grounds of Okhine’s temple. It was a quiet morning and it felt like something out of the old days. The days after she had married Shankar and Chaman had married Champa. The days before her father-in-law King Deenanath Tripathi had died.

Those days had been the happiest she’d known along with her Guddu’s early years. It seemed Chaman was thinking the same thing.

“Do you remember when we used to walk in the palace gardens together?” he asked her.

It had been her, Shankar, Chaman, Champa, and Kaali. The five of them had been inseparable in those days. Talking of anything and everything. The whole world had been in their hands. They thought they were immortals. But one of them was dead and the other four separated. All of them thrall to the workings of time.

“It feels like only yesterday,” she whispered then she smiled as a memory came to her. “Do you remember when Shankar was trying to climb that old orange tree and the pigeon opened its bowels in his hair.”

Chaman laughed. “By the gods what I wouldn’t do to get back those days.”

He said it lightly but Sunaina knew her brother-in-law well. They all wanted to go back and change things. They all could have done better. There was no point in dwelling in the mistakes of the past, the future before her seemed brighter, almost like atonement for the sins of the past. 

As if summoned by her thoughts, the now-familiar figure, the man who now seemed to encapsulate hope for the future, Kartik Singh came down the steps of the Okhine temple, a bright yet flustered smile on his face. He was heading towards them. 

Sunaina and Chaman stopped their walking and once Kartik reached them he bent down and touched their feet with his hands, before bringing those very hands to his chest.

“Good morning, mother,” he turned to Chaman. “Uncle.”

“Good morning _beta_ ,” came Sunaina’s reply, she used the Mahanite word for son. She touched his cheek lightly noting that Kartik’s smile grew wider at the touch despite the apparent grogginess that was visible over his whole body. “Did you sleep well?”

“Have you had water? Or anything to eat?” Chaman asked. “Remember to keep drinking water during the day. When I was younger I used to think that the only way to combat a hangover was by drinking _more_ alcohol.” he chuckled. “I hope you have proven to be wiser than I was at twenty-four.”

Kartik’s cheeks had turned a brilliant shade of red as he looked at both Chaman and Sunaina with shame.

“I came to apologise actually,”

“For what?” asked Chaman, clearly perplexed.

“Aman told me all that happened last night.” he looked down at the floor. “All that I said, it was neither appropriate or respectful. I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have had to hear that.”

Sunaina remembered the night before, she remembered watching as Kartik had drunk, as Ugdam later told them, half the Eskabadi horn. She remembered being worried at the amount he was consuming. Had Ugdam not gotten up and wrenched the horn away from Kartik, she most likely would have done it herself. 

She remembered how he had talked incessantly and lovingly about Aman. Of course she had been more than shocked and embarrassed when his tongue became lewder. And she had also been surprised at the confirmation of all their suspicions, that the two of them had been amorous before their supposed, first meeting. 

When the two of them had left, it was Rajini who had burst out laughing, the others had joined in. 

The shock had worn off after a while, and in the end she realised she had seen love in Kartik’s eyes more than anything else and that had given her comfort. What did it matter if the consummation occurred long before the marriage itself?

Now Sunaina took in Kartik's abashed demeanour and noted there was fear there too. Fear of what? Suddenly it struck her. It was a fear of disapproval. Not for the first since Aman’s marriage, her heart went out to him.

“You were drunk,” said Sunaina as comfortingly as she could. “Your Uncle here has said worse things whenever he was drunk. Do not worry.”

“If anything we all had a good laugh about it,” said Chaman. “Well after the concern wore off. You did have a lot to drink. Which demon possessed you to do so?”

“The demons of pride and recklessness,” Kartik answered.

“Shankar always did the most idiotic things when I first married him.” Remarked Sunaina. “As if pulling them off would make me love him more. You do not have to do that for Aman, he cares for you already.”

Kartik’s expression became wistful at the mention of Aman. Another thought struck Sunaina.

“Did Aman tell you to apologise to us?” she asked him. 

Her son had been beyond embarrassed, but now that she thought of it he had seemed almost livid as well.

“If he did, I swear I will break his hand,” said Sunaina. “You were drunk, you knew not what you were doing or saying. He should know better, why he would most likely-”

“I came of my own accord,” said Kartik quietly. “In fact Aman told me it was not necessary.”

“Try not to be so foolhardy next time,” said Chaman warmly. 

“I only have one son,” said Sunaina. “And one bangle to give to the person he chooses for his life partner. I would rather you stay with us for a long time yet.”

~~~

Try as she might Devika could not simply let her anger simmer away. But as always her anger for Kartik was coloured with concern. 

She could hear his drunken words last night and they all pointed to one thing. He had met the Mahanite King before their first council meeting. He most likely slept with him too, judging from his proclamations and Aman’s embarrassed reaction the night before. And he had decided to actively hide it from her.

Why would he feel the need to hide this from her? The last time he had done so… no it was too painful to think about, even now, three years later she could not quite remember the incident with the opium without tears. 

_Does he not trust me?_

That thought too was painful for she trusted him with all her heart. 

She was angry too that he had been reckless with the alcohol. That he was being reckless with his body and his heart. She did not want to see him hurt.

She let these thoughts roil through her mind as she sat by the Nightshade Garden, where the priests would collect the tears of Okhine in the early hours of the morning. It was mid-morning now, no priest or novice would be here to disturb her.

Absent-mindedly she picked away at frostbitten plants. 

“That is considered sacrilege amongst the more traditional of our priesthood.”

Devika turned to see Ravi standing behind her. It was not the first time he had surprised her like this. His walk was something she had noted with curiosity, imposing and strong, but at the same time, soft and graceful. Almost like a cat’s.

“You are not one of the more traditional I assume, or else I would most likely be beheaded by now” she said. “It’s a wonder they made you a high priest.”

Ravi laughed and sat down beside her, he studied her with those soft green eyes of his. 

“You seem distressed,” he said.

“Should you not be doing your priestly duties?”

“I consider it my priestly duty to bring comfort to all worshippers of Okhine.” he paused. “You do not have to tell me. But whatever it is, I think you should take it head-on rather than letting it fester in you like an unchecked wound. You do not lack courage I do not think.”

“How would you know that?”

He did not answer her but started picking at the frozen nightshade plants. 

“You know that is considered sacrilege amongst the more traditional priests.” she found herself echoing his words. 

When he laughed again she could not help but smile back. She considered how well Ravi had determined the nature of her grievance. Thinking and pondering on it will only heighten her anger towards Kartik and she did not want their relationship to worsen because of it.

“Thank you Ravi,” she said softly. 

“Go then,” he encouraged. “Face whatever it is head-on. ”

Devika stood and before she left she allowed herself to take one last look at Ravi. The only warmth amongst the frozen nightshade gardens. She understood now why he was a high priest.

Devika resolved to find Kartik. Today was a day off from matters of state since they were leaving for Chandan tomorrow. He would most likely be in his rooms or wandering around the village. 

She did not expect to run into him just as she was about to enter the temple.

“Devi?” he questioned then he grinned. “Good morning.”

She studied Kartik. Last night’s drunkenness still seemed to have an effect on him. He seemed a little less energetic than usual, his flame a little more dimmed, but he also seemed strangely content. 

“I want to speak to you,” she said.

“Is it about last night?” said Kartik. “Aman told me everything…”

“You lied to me,” she said simply, even so, she could not contain the anger in her voice. “You said you never slept with him.”

Kartik looked at her perplexed before realisation seemed to come over him.

“Devi I’m married to him and you know when married couples marry they do in fact-”

“Not your wedding night Kartik, the one before when you first met.” her voice was growing steadily louder. “The night before our first council meeting. You said that you did not sleep with him when I asked. Why did you lie to me?”

He was silent and that made things worse. 

“Half the world seems to already know you’ve fucked long before the marriage? And yet you still let me think that it was not entirely true.”

“There are some memories you simply can’t bring yourself to share no matter if the world gets it right.” 

“Which poet did you quote that from?”

“None,” he said proudly. “It’s my own.” then his pride fell away to reveal a certain annoyance “I don’t have to tell you everything.” 

“No you do not,” she agreed. “But the fact that you blatantly lied about it and went to great pains to hide it from me tells me that there is something wrong.” looked at him in the eyes now. “And you are being reckless again. Do not think I cannot tell. Not just with the alcohol, but with your body and heart.”

“Devi-”  
  


“You are _utterly_ in love with him, do not deny it and if you are not careful-”

“He is my husband Devi, am I not supposed to love him?”

“Yes but,” she paused. “You are giving him your whole heart I do not want...I do not want to see you get hurt again.”

At these words his expression softened and he gently placed his hands on her shoulders and looked at her with what seemed to be all the affection he could muster.

“You, Qabid and Parvaaz have done so much for me. More than anyone can expect from their friends. And I would not be here today. I am grateful truly but. Do not worry about me,” he said. “That is an order from your king. I know what I have done and what I am doing now.”

When he embraced her, she prayed that he was right.

  
  



	24. Blue Embers, White Ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mehan's fic 'i'll stand by you - always.' I have developed Champa's character. THANKS MEHAN FOR BEING A CHAMPA PIONEER. Also if you guys go back to the first chapter I have added a map. I will link it in the end.

They will sing for us, my love

Of, the winter roses and the snow

We need no poets or their pens

Our story was written long ago

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

The Eskabadi delegation and the now combined house of the Singhs and Tripathis left Kashatr on the same day. There had been much fanfare to celebrate the newfound treaty between the two countries. 

_ Fanfare had started their journey. Fanfare will end it. _ Keshav thought with a smile. 

He was sitting in his tent, they were a day's ride from Chandan now, even so, he could practically taste the excitement of Chandan’s citizens. They had set up camp on the other side of The Godsblade River. The next morning they would be crossing the bridge and eventually coming to their beloved city. Keshav had missed Chandan, with its high walls and gleaming gold domes. He missed his books and library most of all. 

His candle now was burning low, it was well into the night, perhaps well into the morning. In a few hours, it would be sunrise but he did not really care for that. He never had.

The book laid before him was Akhtari, courtesy of Parvaaz. He had promised he would show the other man Chandan’s great library and Parvaaz had promised Akhtar’s in exchange. They were both eager to get to Shafaq. The gods knew how much treasure lay hidden in that empty ruin fortress. 

It was said that Erhan had made copies of every book in all the kingdoms of that time and placed them in a large personal library. The tradition of copying every book had gone on for centuries. Even when Shafaq had been long abandoned by the time of the Great Burning, the scholars stayed behind to maintain the library and keep records. 

When the Great Burnings were incited the scholars had taken up their arms and defended the fort against those who sought to destroy any record of Mahan and Akhtar’s history with each other. There had been only twenty of them, barely armed and hardly trained, yet they gave the soldiers from both countries hell for many years. The Scholar’s Siege they called it and it had lasted long after the Great Burnings had cooled to ash. 

One of these scholars, their leader, the Learned Faheema, a woman of sixty at the time of her death, had led the last charge out of Shafaq’s fortress. While the scholars inside had buried the books and writings in a secret vault. In the end, Faheema and her scholars were slaughtered, but they had also been victorious. To this day the great books and records lay hidden somewhere in Shafaq where none were able to find them. 

Faheema was a hero of Keshav’s. He could only hope to be as brave and as wise her.

As he was reading the door to his tent opened. Hastily he closed his book and looked up to see that Rajini had entered. 

“You should be asleep,” Keshav said. 

“And you shouldn’t?” she questioned. “What are you reading?”

“The History of the Three Hundered Year War,” said Keshav.

Rajini rolled her eyes. “Haven’t our tutors drilled it into our heads enough?”

“You would be surprised at how much is misconstrued on both sides.” Keshav proffered the book to her. “For example, our history says that Queen Galila had killed only the prisoners of war in the First Battle of Balkar, whereas in Akhtari history she not only killed the prisoners but put the innocents to the sword as well.”

“Which one is the truth?”

Keshav shrugged. “The truth is likely somewhere in between. It always is.”

Rajini began to read through the passage he had pointed utterly fascinated. Keshav could not help but smile at his sister’s reaction. 

“Will you lend me this?” she asked.

“It belongs to Parvaaz,” said Keshav “You will have to ask him.”

“Of course it is,” she traced the Akhtari letters. “I came to tell you Kaali, Aman and Kartik have decided to hold a council meeting tomorrow after the procession. I overheard them talking in Aman and Kartik’s tent”

“They were awake?”

“You are not the only one who stays up late,” she said. 

She sat down beside him and sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. Without thinking, Keshav put an arm around her. It felt just like old times, the quiet moments in their childhood when they weren’t tearing each other’s hair out.

“I’m worried Keshav,” she said simply. 

It was rare, rare to see her so vulnerable. He held her tighter.

“Worried about what?” he asked,

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “This whole marriage, this third player who seems to want to get these two countries to war and Aman…”

“Kartik seems absolutely smitten.”

Rajini laughed, “Did you see Guddu’s face when he started saying all that?” 

Keshav found himself grinning, he had been amused seeing his cousin’s cool demeanour break. 

“It seems all of you are falling in love except me.” he said, his voice catching onto a rather mournful note.

Rajini regarded him. “I am not.”

“Is that why you and Kusum run off every opportunity you get?” he asked teasingly.

Rajini huffed and pushed him off, Keshav found himself laughing, but also secretly pleased, knowing he had hit on the right spot with his guess. And besides, as much as he would never say it out loud, he wishes his sister every happiness. As for himself...

“We’re training,” said Rajini.

“I never knew training with you made people smile so much.”

“Fuck off.” then she paused and studied Keshav’s face. She knew him well and it seemed as if she had only just registered the hint of mournfulness in his tone. “Keshav, I know you may think that losing her was the end of everything, but it isn’t.”

She wrapped her arms around him “She would have wanted you to move on.”

~~~

Champa never liked fanfare, large celebrations, or crowds. She never liked attending such large events unless it was absolutely necessary or if she knew most of her loved ones would be there. 

This was something Chaman had found rather surprising early on in their marriage. In her younger years, Champa was known throughout the court for her wit and charm with a slight penchant for stirring trouble. One would expect her to revel in large crowds.

But she did not. At least not when those she loved were not there.

They say there was to be a large celebration when they were to enter the city. To welcome their Kings. Both old and new. She was to be a part of the procession. As much as she dreaded it she was also strangely exhilarated by it. Her whole family would be there and that put her at ease more than anything. And her family, it seemed, now included the Akhtari King. 

She had not known what to think of Kartik at first. He was, after all, the man who had killed her brother-in-law. When she finally had the chance to talk to him during their journey she found him to be the perfect complement to her nephew. That was to say he was humorous, loud and brazen but overall decent, with an undeniable sweetness in his very bones. He had even taken to calling her  _ Umchi _ , the Akhtari word for Aunt. 

Whenever she saw him stand by Aman, or ever when he stole not-so-discreet glances, she was reminded of how Chaman would look at her. How he still looked at her. It put her in a painful state that lay between happiness and mourning.

They were close to the city gates. It was decided that members of the royal family would go through the procession either on horseback or in open carriages.  _ The people need to see us.  _ Sunaina had said that and Champa had acquiesced.

Here Champa was sitting alongside Sunaina and Kusum with Kaali and Chaman opposite them. Champa was not blind to Sunaina’s attempts to reconcile her with Chaman. While she showed cool indifference on the outside the reality was she was in complete turmoil. She loved her husband and she had missed him. But his last words to her, all those years ago, still echoed in her ears. Try as she might she could not forget them and neither could Chaman unspeak them.

It seemed she couldn't take her eyes off of him either. Age had worn them both, but he was still Chaman Tripathi. The kind man and powerful statesman she had loved. Still loved.

Once they neared the city gates Champa watched as Chaman gave a sigh and smiled as he looked at Chandan’s walls. 

“You must have missed Chandan.” it was Kaali who spoke.

“More than you know,” Chaman answered, his eyes fell on Champa and at that moment even she could not find it in herself to look away.

“You’re back now,” said Sunaina cheerfully. “I believe the city missed you too.”

That was no lie. The people had once lauded Chaman as a hero. Where Shankar had won glory with his sword Chaman had done with his words. His reforms and his arguments would go down in history. If only...

A rider on a white stallion approached. Champa realised that it was her nephew, Aman.

“Have you left Kartik all alone at the head of the procession?” asked Sunaina. Champa knew that Sunaina was starting to love Kartik as her son-in-law, she had said as much to Champa.

“He’s talking to Devika, besides he can manage by himself.” 

Indeed in the distance Champa could see Kartik astride his horse talking to the beautiful young woman, Devika, who was said to be his closest advisor and best friend.

Aman paused and regarded them. “He sends his salutations if that is any comfort.”

“Tell him we accept them wholeheartedly,” said Chaman.

“Even so” started Kaali. “Should you not be with him right now? The procession-”

“Relax Kaali I only wanted to make sure everything is in order.”

“You have soldiers and guards to do that for you,” started Sunaina.

Aman smiled now at Champa, and she knew exactly what he was going to say. 

“If a King cannot do things for himself then he is no true king.”

Aman had not only learned Kingship from at the feet of Shankar, Kaali, Sunaina and even Chaman. He had also learned it from Champa herself, albeit, in a more subtle way. She was surprised he remembered. But then again Aman was never one for forgetting.

He bid them farewell and rode on making his inspection. Champa found herself smiling at her nephew’s words. When he was done he cantered back to the front of the procession, taking his place beside Kartik. 

Soon enough the procession started in earnest. 

The alabaster walls of Chandan gleamed dimly in the winter sun. The great iron gates opened and Champa watched as Kartik and Aman urged their horses forward in unison. When they were in sight of the people, a deafening roar went up from the crowd. The voices of Chandan cried out in unison for their Kings, for the peace they had attained and for the dawning of a new era.

The blue petals of the winter roses, and the light sprinkling of snow, rained down on the two Kings like blue embers and white ash from a blazing fire. Only they came not from flames but from the hands of their people. Champa watched as Kartik turned to face Aman, the smile on his face had softened, his eyes wholly intent on the man beside him. 

Aman finally registered his husband’s gaze and matched him with a mellow expression that Champa had never seen before. Both their cheeks were flushed from the cold. Stray petals stuck in their furs. The snow in their hair and beards, rested in such a way that it made it look as if they had aged nearly forty years. To Champa it seemed like she was seeing a premonition, a vision from the future. 

For a couple to grow old together was a luxury and she hoped it would prove true for them.

Kartik held out his hand tentatively, Aman’s fingers slipped through his without hesitation. Together they tore their eyes away from each other, faced the crowds, and raised the clasped hands high for all to see. 

Somehow the noise from the crowd grew louder. 

Somehow Champa felt at ease.

~~~

Kaali sat in the familiar council room in Chandan’s palace. He was looking at Kartik whose eyes roamed around the room like those of a moonstruck child. Indeed all the Akhtari seemed fascinated by the architecture. 

“Is everything so ornate in this palace?” the Akhtari King asked. “The jewels, the gold and the carvings…” he trailed off, a loss for words. “Even in Khorshid our walls are not so intricate.”

“The jewels are actually stained glass,” said Keshav. “And the gold is not real. Or else our treasuries would be empty.”

Aman smiled at Kartik’s awed expression in a way that rankled Kaali, but he said nought. He had to play this safe. When Aman spoke he seemed amused and completely off guard.

“I can’t wait to see your face when we get to our chambers.”

Rajini let out a cough “You can discuss the matter of your chambers later and  _ privately _ .” she grinned at Kartik. “The gods know...we have heard enough.”

Realising what he had said Aman took a keen interest in the eagle carved on the table, a slight tinge of scarlet at his cheeks.

“Must you always bring that up?” Kartik retorted with the annoyance of a man who had been hearing the same joke for all his life, nevertheless his cheeks too had gone red.

“Yes,” answered Rajini.

For the whole ride from Kashatr to Chandan Rajini had not stopped teasing Kartik about his drunkenness and the words he had spoken, bringing it up when it was least expected. In short Kartik was never going to live it down, if Rajini had anything to do with it, at least not for a while yet. 

That too rankled Kaali. 

Aman up until now had never hidden anything from him. Kaali had made sure of that. Yet Kartik’s drunken proclamations not only destroyed any foundations of the disbelief anyone harboured about the consummation, but actually hinted at a strange sort of affection for each other that had started long before the marriage. 

He wanted to take Aman by the shoulders and tell him, remind him that this was the man who killed Shankar. His father. But he did not do so. It would not be wise.

“I think we should start by addressing the matters at hand,” said Kaali, not wishing to hear any more of this conversation. 

“Of course,” said Parvaaz, rifling through the parchments in his hands.

They had been collecting reports, eye-witness accounts, of the Attack in Kashatr since the Autumn. It culminated in this, a thick pile of parchment laden with dark ink, resting in Parvaaz’s hands.

“The reports were varied, as was expected,” he said. “But all agreed on certain points. The very first was that the attackers wore no recognisable colours. Their clothing was drab and dreary. There were various shouts, some for Mahan, others for Akhtar.”

“Mercenaries no doubt,” said Rajini. “But paid by whom?”

“By neither of our nations that is for certain,” answered Keshav. “Eskabad?”

Kartik shook his head touching the delicate Saapki bone necklace that both he and Aman wore perpetually “They have far too much to lose if we go to war, and this person wants war no doubt. Eskabad’s supply of food would be dwindled for one. They have known many hard years in the past three centuries, they would not want a repeat.”

“What more is in those reports?” asked Aman.

“Well other than the various slaughters there was one other thing that was not quite in the reports themselves.” Parvaaz bent down and drew a box. “On our first trip to Kashatr Vahi said that it was left behind by one of the attackers. She entrusted it to me.”

“You have been keeping this from us?” asked Kartik.

“Since the Autumn too.” added in Devika. “Why?”

“I promised Vahi,” Parvaaz answered. “She said it would ruin the mood of the courtship and marriage. And she was right. We would not have been able to discuss it properly and it would have hung over us the whole time .”

“Open it up then,” it was Aman who spoke, his stern voice belying a certain curiosity.

He opened the box and inside was a dagger. It was a small thing but ornate. The blade was sharp and glistened a brilliant sea-green. The pommel was shaped with the head of a Viper. Kaali knew it well. He had hired mercenaries from the Southern Isles and each of them carried such a dagger. He was not yet sure what the discovery of this weapon meant for his plans just yet, but he was still the loyal servant of the king.

“I recognise the make,” he said. “This is the sea-steel of the Dancing Vipers in the Southern Isles.”

“Could it be that this so-called leader of the Dancing Vipers means to attack?” asked Devika. 

“There have been reports from our spies in the South,” said Keshav. “That this leader, Naveen, had been prophesied to bring about destruction.” he paused. “Of course it's most likely not true, but religious fervour can do many strange things.”

“Should we send this southern King an invitation?” asked Kartik. “Talk to him..”

This was new. When Kaali had hired the Southerners had only meant to use them once hoping that Aman would wage war. He had had no backup plan. He had been so sure. This prophecy proved to be useful especially if he was to lead these foolish advisors away from his own trail. Suddenly he thought of something.

“There were a few Southerners in the inn, they arrived to do business in Chandan. Perhaps if we talk with them we can garner where their allegiance lies?”

He had no ulterior motives with this, he was as curious as the rest, more so because he needed to know how it would affect his plan.

“I will go,” said Devika. “It is clear that no one outside this circle should conduct the investigation lest our motives are revealed.”

“You can’t fight properly,” said Kartik. “And things can get ugly in inns.”

Devika frowned and Kaali sat back to watch the unfolding chaos of the various advisors arguing over who should go. In the end Devika, Parvaaz and Keshav were ruled out because of their inability to fight if need be. Rajini could not go because she would be too recognisable, due to the scar over her eye. That left the two kings and Kaali. 

“I am not risking your life,” Aman said to Kaali. “You are far too valuable to me.”

“And what of your life Aman? You are not like a son to me,” asked Kaali, when he said those words he knew them to be true. He loved Aman, in his own way. “You and Kartik are the  _ kings  _ of this nation.”

“And it is  _ our _ duty as kings to look after our people,” said Kartik. “Aman and I will go together.”

Kaali found himself glowering at those words. Kartik’s influence on Aman was already more potent than he liked. He had no proof but he was sure that somehow Kartik had prompted Aman to give the Harishkan ranges back to Eskabad.

“Will you not be recognised?” asked Keshav. “The whole of Chandan saw you today.”

“The people see what they want to see,” said Aman. “When they see a king, they see the kalgi, the turban, the jewels, the armour, and the sword. Not the man underneath it all.”

“None can question your loyalty to the people,” said Rajini. “Either of you. But your safety is also paramount. Kaali should go.”

“You may have been a great warrior once,” Aman said to Kaali. “But you are far too old for this sort of business. Besides if the inn is the one I think it is, it should be better if I go.”

Kaali looked at him startled. “Why?”

Aman shrugged, but there was a barely repressed smile at his lips.

  
_ Forgive me Shankar  _ Kaali said almost as if in prayer.  _ I cannot control him. _

_ ______________________________ _

[ _ Map _ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406343/chapters/56095255)


	25. An Oath Fulfilled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kartik names a dog Gabru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so fun to write I hope you enjoy it.

False prophets there be many

False king and conquerors too

To you I tell the secrets of my heart

No betrayals come between me or you

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Rajini had been at the council meeting for the whole day, so Kusum took it as an excuse to not train for the day. Training was, after all, only really exciting when Rajini was there with her. 

She took the liberty of walking alone through the gardens, in the twilight hours. The days were getting shorter, the winter was bitter and cold, the gardens frozen over, save for the winter roses that grew in spite of it all. 

She had missed Chandan, these gardens especially. They felt more like home than being in Kashatr had. 

Her talk with Vahi still plagued her. Could she truly go through with it? Betray those she had come to love. She thought of Rajini and her heart was filled with ice. What would she think once she knew? Would she hate her?

As far as the plan was concerned nothing was definite. Kusum knew that somehow they were going to pin the blame on Akhtar, she was after all the one who suggested that. How exactly they were going to do it? Rakesh would not say and only told her to be patient as he tried to figure out the logistics of it.

_It is best not to think of that. It is best not to think of anything._

Eyes downcast, Kusum turned a corner and found herself crashing into someone falling backward, she was saved from falling on her backside by a strong hand at her wrist.

“Sorry,” came the now familiar voice of Kartik as she steadied herself. She took him in, much like her he was warmly dressed with a great cloak made of fur. Much like her he seemed forlorn. “I was not looking where I was going.”

Kusum smiled at him, still aware of his fingers at her wrist “That makes two of us, your majesty.”

“Please,” he said. “Just call me Kartik. You are Kusum if I remember correctly. Rajini’s friend?”

“You do remember correctly.” she then registered what his presence here in the gardens may mean. “Has the council meeting ended?”

“It ended only five minutes ago, Rajini is going to make an inspection of the barracks, she will be back at the palace an hour or so.”

His gaze finally went to her wrist, or more specifically the bangle that Sunaina had given. He smiled and pulled up a sleeve showing her a matching one. She had seen it on him before, she had seen Sunaina put it on his wrist herself. 

“The Queen mother gave you that, did she not?” he asked excitedly.

She was not sure what to make of his eagerness, so she put on her familiar armour of courtesy.

“The bangle of all the consorts of Mahan’s Kings and Queens, by rights it should be yours.” she ventured to take it off.

He caught her hands and stopped her gesture. “Gods forbid that I ask it of you. The Queen Mother gave it to you as a symbol of her love, as she did me.” his smile now was tentative, the forlornness had not left. “It seems we are bound now. I have found another sister.” 

_Sister._ She both despaired and rejoiced to hear it.

“And I, a brother,” Kusum could not hide the way her voice cracked at the word _brother_.

She had not called anyone that since the day her real brother, Indran, had been cut down by a Mahanite soldier. Yet somehow it did not seem out of place here, especially when all hints of sadness left him at those words, to be replaced by a huge grin.

He proffered his elbow “Walk with me.”

Kusum found she could not refuse and placed her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow. So they walked together through the wintry landscape of the palace gardens. The dusting of the night’s snow lingered, the setting sun made it glitter like thousand minuscule white gems.

“Forgive me for being bold,” Kartik started. “But I cannot help but note that you seem rather forlorn.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Boldness is an admirable attribute, one needed in a king especially,” said Kusum. “As for me being forlorn, I am not sure I can say it.”

“Rajini said that you may have had feelings for Aman,” he said quietly. “I am sorry I took him from you, truly, had I known I may not have asked him to marry me.”

And there it was that kindness that she had heard so much about. _Why do you have to make this hard for me?_

“He would not have loved me half as well as he loves you,” Kusum told him. “I am happy for you both truly.”

“No ill will between us then?”

“None,” she confirmed. 

When that brought another smile to his face Kusum’s heart almost broke. Would he still call her sister if he knew?

“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “I call you sister yet I hardly know you.”

“I do not know myself either,” at least that much was true. “They say I am the daughter of Lord Acharya. I am not sure. I bear his seal, but I have no definite memory. They found me in the rubble of his destroyed fort” she paused. “Sunaina is the only mother I have now.”

“That makes both of us.” his features turned forlorn. “My mother died when I was eight. I remember her smile and her eyes. She had kind eyes.”

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was,” confirmed Kartik.

“How did she die?”

“She took fever at the birth of my younger sister,” Kartik answered. “She died in childbed, and my sister went with her only three days after.”

“I am sorry.”

“Do not be, it is not your fault. Besides the gods have granted me a mother in Sunaina and a sister in you.”

“Sometimes I feel like I am not deserving of so much love,” she admitted.

It was easy, talking to him. It was as easy as talking to Rajini.

“Nonsense,” he said pressing her hand. “You are deserving of this and much more.”

~~~

That night, Kartik and Aman stole out of their rooms like a pair of lovers ready to elope. They were dressed in simple clothes, fine but without embroidery or jewels. Kartik had, rather dramatically, and mournfully parted with his nose-ring. Even so without it, his features took on another beauty. A beauty that was both naked and strangely earthen.

“Remember,” whispered Aman as they made their way out of the door. “My name is Quasar.”

“As if you have not mentioned it one hundred times,” muttered Kartik. “Why not Chandravadan?”

Aman found himself frowning as he often did when Kartik brought up the night at the temple. It was an unacknowledged fact that hung between them. And Aman preferred it to remain just that, unacknowledged. 

“If you like the ridiculous name so much why don’t _you_ use it instead of Tariq.”

Kartik grinned at him. “It suits _you_ better.”

Aman heard the slight teasing barb but did not acknowledge it. Instead started walking faster down the halls. Aman knew exactly where each guard would be posted, he always knew, it was one of the things he prided himself in. So he knew exactly which halls to take at which time. 

Tonight was going to be especially easy, out of the supposed happiness of his marriage, he had allowed for a week of holidays, and for the duties of the guards to be lightened. The halls were practically empty, even so, Aman kept his eyes and ears alert as he led Kartik down to the very depths of the palace. 

It would not bode well if the guards knew where their kings were going. The plan required utter secrecy. Their motives had to remain completely hidden. Especially since the way they were sneaking out was the greatest secret of the Mahanite kings.

“Where exactly are we going?” asked Kartik.

“The inn of the Laughing Moon.”

“I know that,” Kartik seemed exasperated. “We could have climbed the palace wall.”

“And risk, not only being seen but also breaking our necks when there is a better option available?” Aman found himself smiling. “You did not wed a fool Kartik Singh.”

Kartik barely repressed a smile of his own.

“Meaning to say _you_ have, Aman Tripathi.” Kartik’s gaze turned to the front. “Is it a secret passage?”

Aman sighed. There was nothing other than sheer pride that prevented him from telling Kartik. He could almost hear his ancestors whispering in his ear. _You will be a traitor to this house._ But Kartik would find out whether he told him or not. Better sooner than later.

“My forefather, King Lakhsam, the man who had this city constructed, built secret tunnels that led out of the palace walls into various parts of the city and even outside the city. We would use it for surprise attacks when we were under siege, or for whenever we needed to get supplies. Only the kings and their closest advisors are to know of this. It is our best-kept secret.” Aman stopped and turned to fully face Kartik. “You are the first Akhtari in history to have been told.”

Kartik’s eyes seemed to bore into him at that moment before he solemnly announced “I will take this secret to my grave. Would you like me to take an oath of blood?” he drew his dagger.

“That will not be necessary. I know you will keep your word.” Aman found himself saying. His mind mocked him, however. _How did you find it in yourself to trust him so soon?_ He ignored the thought. Whatever else Kartik was he was also an honourable man and for these six months an ally. Aman would be damned if he did not accord him that respect. “You too have blood oaths in Akhtar?”

“It seems our two countries have more in common than we thought.” Kartik’s reply was barely a whisper, yet his words carried the sorrow that lay the ashes of the Great Burning.

“Come,” Aman turned towards the stairs that led into the very bowels of the palace. “We do not have much time.”

They descended into a small enclosed chamber, barely furnished. To an unwitting eye, it looked like a dead end.

“I see no tunnel,” said Kartik.

“It is a _secret_ tunnel,” Aman explained. “It would not bode well for it to be displayed in plain sight.”

Aman went to the other end of the wall and pulled at one of the torch holders. There was a low monotonous creek, where there was once solid stone, now a gaping cavern with no end in sight. 

Aman took up one of the burning torches and entered, not looking back at Kartik. He did not need to look back to know that he would follow. Once they were both safely inside Aman closed the great stone door behind him, using the counter-contraption. 

The darkness shrouded them slowly but surely. The only light now the torch in Aman’s hands. 

“How can you see so well?” muttered Kartik. “I can barely see _you_ even with the torch.”

Aman knew the way like he knew the back of his hand. The gods knew how many times he had walked it. How many times he had come here with his father, or Rajini and Keshav. How many times he had wandered here all by himself seeking solace away from the palace. Every stone, every rocky, every slab was laden with one memory or another. He could still hear his father telling him about all the great escapades carried out by their ancestors.

“One does not need eyes to see something one knows well,” he said.

“You are familiar with these tunnels,” stated Kartik. “You have snuck out to this inn then? It makes sense now, why you were so insistent on going. Here I thought you were a stickler for rules.”

Aman was not sure how to answer him, so he did not. They made the rest of the journey through the tunnels in silence, only to be broken when Aman found what he was looking for. A singular slab of stone on the ceiling above. 

“Hold this,” he handed Kartik the torch. Using his strength he pushed the slab up before moving it to the side to reveal an opening. He turned back to Kartik. “Leave the torch here. The alley we are about to enter is abandoned, and only a few streets away from the inn. Remember we’re lovers, nobles in the service of the kings, in need of a room for the night and I am…”

“You’re Tariq and I’m Quasar,” Kartik interrupted. Realising he had gotten them mixed up, he cursed. 

“Perhaps it is best if you do not speak.” 

Kartik muttered a few more curses before dropping the torch, pushing Aman aside and climbing up the hole in the ceiling. Aman followed soon after. 

They emerged out into the abandoned alleyway, their only witness a large shaggy stray dog that eyed them both warily. Kartik went down on one knee and held out his hand towards the animal, coaxing towards him as Aman turned away to place the stone slab back to its original place. 

“The dog will likely bite your finger off rather than let you pet him,” said Aman turning around to Kartik’s foolish attempt at wooing the dog. “They strays-”

He stopped short at seeing that the dog was resting its front paws on Kartik’s chest and was licking his face, as Kartik was scratching its ears cooing sweet nothings at him. Hearing Aman, Kartik turned to him.

“What about they strays?”

“They are dangerous.”

“This one does not seem dangerous,” Kartik exclaimed. “I’m naming him Gabru.”

Aman found himself, once again, angered at the easy way in which Kartik managed to charm every creature that came into contact with him.

“He most likely ran away from a good home. Come we need to get to the inn.”

“We can’t leave him!”

“We can and we will,” Aman gritted his teeth. “We need to go.”

With what seemed like genuine forlornness, Kartik gently took the dog’s paws off his chest and placed them on the ground. With one finally pat on the head he rose and followed Aman.

But it seemed Gabru and Kartik were of the same mind. The dog bounded up to Kartik’s side yapping excitedly. Aman hoped this did not ruin their plans. 

Finally, the three of them reached the inn. It was not particularly fine, or particularly drab. But there was warmth and laughter emanating from the amber light that shone through the cracks in the door. The sign at the front was written on silvery-gray, with a crude depiction of a laughing moon for which the inn was named for.

“Charming establishment,” said Kartik, drily. 

“I know everything about Chandan seems fascinating to you but try not to look like a stunned ox when you enter.”

Aman opened the door to the inn and entered, his eyes scanning the room for any Southerners. It would not be hard. The Southerners were known for their large dark tattoos, inked onto their necks at the tender age of sixteen. 

He found them finally, six men sitting at the table with mugs of ale between them, laughing raucously. Aman had been trained in the languages of the Southern Isles, but they talked too fast, with the easy fluency of a tongue spoken since birth, and they were far away. Aman could not make out what they were saying.

He contented himself in taking a table near them, the only one that was available. It seemed the people were too afraid to go near them. Kartik took the chair beside him.

“Quasar!” came the familiar voice of the innkeeper, Ganaki, a portly woman in her mid-forties. “It has been long since I last saw you. Then again you must be very busy, being a Gentleman of the Chamber to the King himself! Did you see their wedding? They say it was magnificent.”

Quasar one the King’s Gentleman of the Chamber was an alias he used frequently at this inn. 

“It was splendid,” he said. “We are truly blessed by their union.”

“They say the Akhtari king is handsome.” continued Ganaki. “Is he? I only saw him from a distance on the first day, he looked magnificent beside our king.”

“Rest assured Ganaki, he is very handsome,” the words came out of Aman’s mouth without forethought and he regretted them instantly. He saw the corner of Kartik’s curl into a knowing smile.

“You’ve brought a companion?” Ganaki noted Kartik’s presence, then she noted the dog at Kartik’s side. “Two companions.”

“Tariq,” Kartik introduced himself. “Gentleman of the Chamber to the Akhtari King. And this is Gabru, my dog.”

As if on cue the dog let out an excited bark.

“We will need a room,” said Aman quietly. “For the night.”

“I always have _that_ room reserved for you,” said Ganaki, taking out a key from the belt that hung from her waist. “I know how much you like it.”

Kartik gave Aman a sideways glance and in it, Aman saw a hint of confusion. He watched as Kartik’s smile had slowed and curdled. 

“Anything to eat or drink?” continued Ganaki.

“Beer,” said Kartik, when Aman shot him an incredulous look his sullenness was transformed to expression of mischief. “Two beers and something for Gabru.”

“I will keep the dog by me, later in the night, if you like,” she looked at its matted fur. “I will also wash him for you free of charge, it is not often we have Akhtari visitors in this inn.” She looked Kartik once over before she leaned down and whispered something in his ear. As she was speaking Kartik looked over at Aman once, brows furrowed.

When Ganaki left Aman frowned at Kartik “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing of importance,” said Kartik, but his features were uncharacteristically grim.

“You should not have asked for a beer.” said Aman. “The last time you had beer you-”

“That was _Eskabadi beer.”_ Kartik joined his hands in mock pleading. “Please do not bring that up that night, your cousin has mentioned it enough to fill man with three lifetimes worth of shame.”

Aman did not mention it. He eyed the Southerners on the other table. He was finally able to make out what they were saying. Unfortunately, it was not anything of interest. The conversation ran along the lines of whoring and drinking.

When their beers were brought along with a chunk of mutton for Gabru, Kartik took a sip before leaning over towards Aman.

“What is the plan from here?” he asked.

“ _You_ are going to start a conversation with them,”

“Why me?”

“You’re the charming one.”

“So I am handsome _and_ charming. I never thought to hear those words from your lips.”

“Just shut up and do it.”

“It does not work that easily. Give me some time. You have clearly never had a conversation with strangers.”

“You would be surprised.”

Kartik’s face took on that serious expression once again. Aman did not deign to wonder what it meant. Kartik took the beer glass and drained it before proffering it before a serving girl, who refilled it for him. 

He was about to drink again when he chanced to look at Aman he set the glass down and leaned over. Aman could feel his breath against his ear, a slight movement and Kartik’s lips would brush against it.

“Try to look a little more like you want to fuck me and little less like you’re planning to kill me.”

Aman knew he was right. They had to keep up appearances. Even so, a certain anger burned in him at the words. _What right does he have to tell me what to do? I am the King of Mahan and he...is also the King of Mahan and Akhtar too._

He smiled and looked at Kartik in the eye as if he had something delightful, sinister, and wickedly uncouth. 

“As you wish.” his whisper, he knew, would be audible enough that those around him would hear it as nothing more than him acquiescing to his partner’s crass suggestions.

Aman was not sure what made him do it. Perhaps it was anger, a sort of retribution at Kartik’s suggestion that he was not playing his part right. Perhaps there was also a desire, a greed, and a yearning. He loathed to admit it but there was a fair bit of that too.

Nonetheless, he ran his hand through the other man’s beard, his fingers idly finding their way up, burying themselves comfortably in his hair. By pulling the soft dark locks he gently tilted Kartik’s head to the side, exposing the exquisite lines and curves of his neck. He did not look at Kartik’s expression. He leaned forward and placed his lips on the soft skin in the place just below his ear and behind his jaw. 

“Better?” he whispered against his neck. 

When he heard Kartik’s sharply suck in a breath, against all reason, he proceeded to leave a trail of kisses down his neck.

With sudden realisation he looked up at Kartik searchingly, wondering if he had gone too far. He remembered being terrified of Kartik’s touch on their wedding night. He wondered if what he had just done had made Kartik recoil.

_I am being inconsiderate._ He thought guiltily. _He is always considerate of how I feel and I have not accorded him the same respect._

But the expression on Kartik’s face was not one he expected. 

His eyes were focused, the gaze intense, under the half-closed lids, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips were parted slightly as if all the words he knew, in every language he knew, had escaped him. There was no unpleasantness in his expression and Aman found it...nice to look at.

_In another world, I could almost love him._

A certain curiosity laced with voracity urged him to undo Kartik’s outer robe, undo the undershirt and continue his downward trail.

But he did not do it. He could not. Not here, not now, and not with him.

“I’m sorry.” he found himself whispering. “That was not…”

Kartik smiled and pressed his forehead against Aman’s, their noses almost touching, their lips barely inches apart. “It’s good for appearances.”

His eyes closed, and Aman could only watch as the space between their lips shortened.

It was then that the accursed dog leaped up between them and started licking both Kartik and Aman’s face eagerly wishing to be included in whatever they were doing.

“This dog yours?” came an amused yet heavily accented voice from the other table.

It was one of the Southerners. A burly man with a crab tattooed onto his neck. His words were jarred as if he only knew the rudiments of Mahanite. 

“Yes,” Kartik answered in the Southern tongue, he looked back at Aman, his intent expression had been transformed by a gloating smile as if to say _I told you keeping the dog was a good idea._

“He’s a fine thing,” said the man, switching back to his mother-tongue, he held a hand to the dog who bounded eagerly towards him, licking his fingers. “I have always wanted a dog, of course, there are not many on the isles.”

“I would give you Gabru, but he is precious to me.”

“You are welcome to him,” Aman muttered to himself in Mahanite. 

If Kartik heard him he chose to ignore it. “I am Tariq and this is Quasar. We are Gentlemen of the Chamber to the kings.”

“Noble-blood, no wonder you know our tongue, I am Lavanyan,” he pointed to his companions. “This is Sanjeewa, Dinesh, Sachin, Manoj and Malindu.”

“What brings you to Mahan?” asked Aman. 

“Same old,” said Manoj. “Trade, wine, women, men.”

“You are traders then?” asked Kartik. “Freshly arrived from the Isles. Any news from our friends in the South?”

“Storms have been brewing,” said Dinesh. “It's a deadly winter, we lost three ships in the last storm. We have a new King of the Isles, though there has been much fighting between the Isles. They say a star has fallen in the North here.”

“In Eskabad yes,” confirmed Aman. “The Queen, Mihan has gone to look at it. So Viper King has risen again in the Isles?”

“Naveen?” Lavanyan laughed. “Yes, the oracle had foretold that he would bring destruction. So they have foretold every time some fool names himself, Viper King.”

“You do not seem to like him very much,” remarked Kartik.

“Like him?” this time it was Malindu who spoke. “Why our Captain over here is his best friend. He loves him.”

_Best friend?_ Aman tried to calm himself down but every nerve on his body was alert, he could feel a slight tremor in his hands. They were close to the truth then.

“Do you think he will do it?” asked Kartik. “Bring this destruction?”

“He’s not like the other kings before him,” said Lavanyan, with something like feverish worship in his eyes. “He is kind, noble, fierce, and focused. If he wishes to conquer I will gladly follow him.”

“That is a dangerous thing to say to Mahanite and an Akhtari,” it was Aman who spoke then, he could not help it. “Especially ones so close to the kings.

The man who had been introduced as Sachin shrugged. “Tell your kings what you like. It is the truth.”

Kartik gave Aman a sideways glance. Perhaps they had truly found their culprits here. But no, why would they say it so brazenly? 

“What exactly did the prophecy say?” he asked, his voice somehow innocently curious. 

Lavanyan looked around the room, leaning towards Kartik, before he could speak however, the chattering of Ganaki reached his ears. 

“Tariq, shall I take your dog for the night.”

“Yes, thank you.” said Kartik, barely managing to hide his annoyance at the interruption. “If I am not here by the morning, please have it sent over to the palace.”

Ganaki coaxed Gabru away with a bone. Leaving Kartik and Aman alone with the Southerners.

“The prophecy you were saying,” said Kartik. 

“The prophecy goes like this:

_The dark star falls when two kings wed_

_In their wake comes the glass mosaic_

_Shattered songs forged in blood do not break_

_In the light of their shadow_

_When the time comes to three_

_The viper will rise from his watery grave_

_He will be king of two lands_

Aman could not make out what it meant, other than that after some time the wedding of two kings, the Viper King would conquer the land. He did not believe it to be true, or a herald of doom. But one could not deny that the King had Northern ambitions and the common folk, zealous on the words of the prophecy, would follow him.

The prophecy, true or no, could very well come to fruition.

“It does not have a distinct rhyming pattern,” Kartik remarked.

“It's an oracle, not a poet,” said Malindu. “The two kings have wed, the dark star has fallen. Our time is near if Naveen wishes it.”

He thought of the words _when the time comes to three._ Three what? Three months? Three years? Three centuries?

“He has not said much on the matter,” admitted Lavanyan. “But let none say the loyalty of Lavanyan son of Inesh was questioned. I will follow him to whatever end.”

“None can doubt it even now.” agreed Kartik.

“It is strange though,” remarked Dinesh. “This marriage of your kings. They say there is genuine love between them. No doubt you have heard the song _Two Kings._ It is very popular in this inn. Did they really fuck before they knew who the other was?”

“That I cannot say,” said Kartik delicately. “Whatever it is we are grateful that it ended the war.”

Malindu laughed “The war that was started when that whore princess and her whelp of a lover decided to forsake their duties for a quick fuck. You Northerners are strange.”

Aman saw Kartik stiffen. Aman had seen glimpses of Kartik’s epic. He knew how it was for Kartik to swallow the bitterness, to smile and laugh as if it were just a joke.

Aman did not laugh. He felt as if his own pride had taken a blow. There had been many misconstruements in histories concerning Aayush and Taharin, concerning the beginnings of the war. Many worse insinuations than ‘a quick fuck’. It should not have angered him so much. But it did.

It was not their fault that they had loved, it was not their fault that they died for their love, it was not their fault that Jahan was cruel and depraved, or that the people had incited the Great Burnings. 

“Their names were Prince Aayush and Princess Taharin,” said Aman slowly, deliberately. He knew he should not be saying anything at all, but he could not help it. “Their names will be taken with respect or I will gut you alive.”

Malindu glowered at Aman’s threat. “Careful with you words little man. One does not lightly threaten a man of the Southern Isles.”

“I will be careful when you learn to think before you profane another’s history.” he couldn't keep himself from talking. He felt Kartik’s gaze on him, he turned to see the astounded look on his face, as if he was seeing Aman for the first time. “But I do not suppose you Southerners know to think outside of your sailing and your fucking and your drinking. You probably have fish for brains. Tell me did you mother fuck a sea cow or-”

Malindu’s nostrils flared. He rose to make a lunge at Aman, but Kartik stood before him. Blocking Malindu’s passage.

“Don’t you dare touch him.” he hissed. 

For the first time, Aman saw Kartik's deadliness, the deadliness he had only heard about, the one that the singers had written in their lays.

What happened after that was a blur. There was shouting, calls to arms, and a fight broke out with Kartik and Aman in the center. Soon others joined in and everyone seemed to be turning on each other.

As the fight raged on around them, Aman pulled Kartik from the fray and up the stairs. He reached inside his pocket and pulled a key opening up one of the all too familiar room. He closed the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. The very room made him feel at ease.

“We botched that,” announced Kartik sitting on the bed.

“Not we. _You_ were doing fine,” said Aman. “It was my fault.”

“Is that humility I see?” 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

“What you said was foolish,” admitted Kartik. “But what is done is done.” he paused and looked at Aman again. “You too know the truth of Aayush and Taharin.”

“As much as was possible.”

“Some of my research is incomplete for my poem. I would like to complete it before I...before I die.”

“I will try my best to help you with it but before that…”

Aman gestured to the sound of the fighting, he pressed his ear against the door. 

The fighting was still confined to the lower hall of the inn. Any minute now they would realise that neither Kartik or Aman were in the common room and they would come bounding up the stairs. Even so, they had some time to recover from the brawl.

Aman took out a bag of gold coins. He lifted a floorboard and placed them in there.

“What are you doing?” Kartik asked.

“Paying Ganaki for the beer, the mutton, looking after your dog for us, her silence, and this room. It’s where I usually leave payment” said Aman, he turned to Kartik and realised he was sporting that grim expression again. Aman found it disconcerting. “Are you hurt? In the fight...your shoulder-”

“I am fine.” said Kartik. 

“Good we have a lot of climbing to do.”

“Climbing?”

“We need to make our escape, we cannot go back downstairs,” explained Aman. “This window leads to a rooftop. From here we can scale buildings and walk rooftops until we reach the alleyway.”

“You seem to have planned this out thoroughly,” remarked Kartik, not without a hint of bitterness he added. “How many times have you been here?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t, I just…” he paused as if in a loss for words. “And you have escaped by this window often?”

“Yes.”

Aman would leave them. 

Every single one of them in the middle of the night when they were fast asleep. He would memorise them once over, the way one had dark hair with flecks of gold, the way another’s shoulders curved, or how another would mutter in his sleep. Then he would turn his back open the window and leave, never to see them again.

Even on nights, he did not take a lover to bed, the window was his exit. 

Before he could come up with an answer to Kartik’s question, he heard shouting from below, and feet rushing up the stairs.

“Come on!” he hissed, rushing to the window, he opened and up and leaped out, landing surely on the roof of an adjacent building, a story lower than the inn. He heard a low thud beside him and was relieved to find that Kartik followed without hesitation.

“Which way?” was all Kartik asked.

Aman ran forward picking his way through the snow-laden icy terrain of Mahan’s rooftops. Kartik followed soon after. They raced across the tiles, scaled the walls, all the while keeping an eye on the streets below and another on the roofs behind them, trying to remain hidden from plain sight.

Neither of them were out of breath. That was the one advantage of excessively training in the arts of war, one’s body became used to extreme rigours. 

More often than not Aman found himself looking back at Kartik to see how he was faring for there was that ever-burgeoning fear that Kartik might slip and fall. 

He himself was used to running across the rooftops, even though the treacherous ice. But Kartik was not. As they were near the alley that led to the secret tunnel. He turned once more to see how Kartik was faring, as he did so, there was a sickening lurch as his foot slipped against a sloped icy tile.

He did not cry out. He could not. He was paralysed. All he could feel were the tiles grazing against his body. Then they were gone. There was nothing. He was falling.

Suddenly there was a hand at his wrist. He heard a loud sharp cry that could only have been Kartik's. It rang across the night, through the streets of Chandan, like the howl of a lone wolf on a moonless night. 

Aman knew then that somehow Kartik had managed to catch his fall, but had injured his shoulder in the process. He was dangling in mid-air, he looked down. The drop would have been from a height of seven stories. Had Kartik not caught him he would have been a dead man. 

“Don’t let go,” Kartik managed out. 

_As if I need to be told._ Aman thought. 

There was shouting from below. 

“They’re up there!” came a voice in the Southern tongue. 

More voices joined in on the cries. Aman looked up at Kartik desperately. Slowly, Kartik started hoisting him up and despite his shoulder he managed it.

“Your shoulder-” Aman started. “You saved my life you-”

“Later…” came Kartik’s voice. “How far are we? We need to-”

Suddenly his eyes widened, he was no longer looking at Aman but behind him. Aman whirled around to see Lavanyan had scaled the walls and was making his way towards them dagger in hand. 

They did not need to be told what to do. Kartik and Aman ran. They raced across Chandan’s roofs with increased fervor knowing a brutal fate waited for them if they so much as faltered again.

Soon they neared the alley.

Aman turned back to see that the Southerners were at distance. Before them was a high building. Aman knew that the other side was another wall, with an old abandoned storefront, still complete with a roof made of cloth. He prayed that it would hold them both.

Aman scaled the building helping Kartik up as they went. He cursed himself for being careless, for causing this injury. For slowing them down.

“We are going to make a leap to the other side!” he announced loudly. Loud enough for the Southerners to hear.

“Are you crazy? We can’t make that leap!” exclaimed Kartik as he stood beside Aman on the wall. He could not see the roof, which was well enough. That meant the Southerners would not see it either.

Aman held out his hand.

“Trust me.”

“You know I already do,” Kartik’s hand slipped into Aman’s with ease. 

Together they leaped and landed on the roof. It did not tear, nor did its framing break. Aman thanked the gods. 

The shouts of the Southerners, growing louder. 

Aman acted, he leaped off the roof and landed in the alleyway before gesturing for Kartik to do the same. Once Kartik landed beside Aman pushed him under the shade of the cloth roof of the storefront, pressing his against the wall, pressing his own body against Kartik, hoping that the roof would be enough to hide them both. He was acutely aware of the feel of Kartik’s hardened muscles against him. He could make out every dip curve. For what seemed like a thousand years they waited.

The Southerners came.

“They seem to have disappeared.” came the voice Manoj.

“They must be on the other side.”

“Or in the alley.” 

There was silence in which they must have given the abandoned alleyway cursory glance. 

“I see nothing,” said Malindu. “They must be on the other building, let's go.”

Aman waited when the southerners had left with bated breath for five minutes. Even when those minutes were up he did not let go of Kartik. Being in his arms felt...safe.

“You can let go of me now.” Kartik reminded him gently after some time had passed. “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

“Is your shoulder alright?”

“If you can help me down the tunnel and when we get back...I don’t think I can massage it back and Qabid is most likely-”

“Of course.”

Though Aman could not see him he knew that Kartik was sporting that brilliant grin. _At least I can do one thing right by him._

~~~

When they came back to their rooms it was well past midnight. Kartik’s shoulders ached like never before. But he would rather _that_ than Aman dying. His neck burned where Aman’s lips had been. He could not forget the desire that had flared in him as Aman’s expression became searching once he pulled away. 

And when they almost kissed again...their lips had almost brushed. For the first time in the evening, Kartik had regretted his decision to befriend the dog.

Now Aman was looking at him with the same expression. Searching.

Kartik tried to lessen his pained expression. If Aman’s guilt on the morning of their wedding night was anything to go by he was not going to forgive himself for injuring his shoulder again.

“Sit,” Aman commanded. “Can you take off your own shirt or-”

“I can undo the lacing,” Kartik interrupted, sitting himself on their bed. “But taking it off is going to be hard.”

“Do what you can while I bring the salves. Then I’ll help you with the rest.”

Aman went over to the dresser and Kartik started to unlace the front of his robes as well his shirt front watched as the other king took out the three salves that Qabid had entrusted to him. Kartik felt like that child again in Qabid’s chambers, awaiting his miraculous healing powers to be administered after a rough beating from his father. Once the salves were in his hands Aman placed them on the bed before he looked at Kartik again with that searching gaze of his. 

“Thank you for doing this,” said Kartik. “It’s well above-”

“I promised Qabid,” said Aman firmly. “Besides I should be the one thanking you. You saved my life. This...it’s the least I can do.”

He frowned as if he had said too much, but Kartik felt a certain warmth bloom in his chest, though he was not entirely sure why. For a moment neither of them knew what to do or what to say. It was Aman who broke the stillness, his hands moving to Kartik’s robe and undershirt, with a certain tenderness he slowly slid them off his body.

Kartik felt a chill run down his spine. He was not sure whether it was from the cold or because of the way Aman’s fingers had briefly brushed against his skin. The places on his neck where his lips had been burned again.

Aman was still sliding off Kartik's upper garments when the door to their room opened. Kartik turned to see Rajini standing at the doorway.

“Was I interrupting something?.” she asked, taking in the scene. It was only then Kartik registered how it may have looked to her. 

“It’s not-” Aman started.

“I will leave soon, but there were reports of a fight at the inn,” her eyes narrowed on both of them. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Not at all,” Aman lied.

“We are as innocent as lambs,” added in Kartik. “Shall I bleat for you?”

Rajini raised a brow “Good, or else Kaali would have insisted on more guards hounding you both day and night for the next few weeks. He was worried sick.”

“It was not us,” Aman assured her. 

“A full report at the council tomorrow then? You seem occupied as of now.”

She did not even wait for their reply, she left the room as quickly as she came.

“Our reputation now lies in the gutters,” Kartik remarked grimly.

“It has been in the gutters since the night you drank half a horn of the Eskabadi beer.”

“I told you not to bring it up!”

Seemingly tired of arguing Aman silently removed his garments and motioned for Kartik to lie on his stomach. This was the second time Aman was doing this for him. The first time being when Kartik had been too drunk to do it himself. He remembered it only vaguely. As if to make up for it his mind was now acutely aware of Aman’s every movement. 

He lay himself face down on the bed, his head facing Aman and he watched as Aman carefully read the labels on the vials and proceeded to pour some into the palm of his hand. The smell was sharp and familiar, it took him back to the first time Qabid had applied it to his shoulder. It had been a few months after the battle, his wounds had closed and his fifteenth name day had passed in a haze of pain and opium. 

He had thought the smell was cloying then, but today it smelt like home. 

Aman placed his hand on Kartik’s shoulder blade. The salve was already working wonders in relieving the pain that had blazed Kartik's strained shoulder. He knew Aman’s touch to be impersonal, but he savoured it anyway, just as he was savouring everything in these last six months of his life.

He also remembered Ganaki’s words, whispered hurriedly in his ears _“You, be careful with him. He has a habit of leaving his lovers by escaping through the window in the middle of the night”_

_And then we both escaped together through the window._ He wondered what Ganaki would make of that.

He could not deny that a certain jealousy had also flared when he heard that. He had never been possessive with his lovers. He still was not. It was not that he did not like the fact that there had been other men in Aman’s life, he himself had taken countless lovers in the last eight years. 

Yet the knowledge that Aman has spent his nights with gods knew how many lovers, that he had given them what Kartik wanted...he knew it was ridiculous, he knew it was absurd. But, by the gods, did he envy them. Envy the fact that they had seen Aman in all his glory, envied the fact they had touched his hair, his lips, his thighs. Envied that fact they had been able to cherish him in ways that Kartik could not. Knew him in ways that Kartik never will.

“You’re very familiar with the room,” said Kartik. “And the way back out from the window. How often have you been there?”

He had expected Aman not to answer. So it came as a surprise when Aman actually spoke.

“I go whenever I need an escape,” his voice was low as if in a trance, his hands however did not falter as he rubbed the salve into his shoulder. “I go whenever I need to forget.”

Kartik understood. The need to leave kingship behind. The need to be just another human being. That was why he and Devika often snuck out of Khorshid’s palace when they were younger.

“You must take lovers frequently if Ganaki has a room reserved just for you.” probed Kartik. Then a thought struck and all the absurd jealousy left. “Were you in love with someone else before we-”

“No,” Aman’s answer was definite, his hands left Kartik’s shoulder to apply the second salve. “I can never let myself do that, love them truly, fully. I never stay with them for more than a night. Besides it's not as often as you think.”

Stupidly enough Kartik found a sense of relief in those words. Aman applied the second salve on his skin, the one for relaxing his muscles. He could feel the tightness in his muscles unravelling made all the more pleasurable as Aman’s hands 

“What _do_ you do in that room then?” asked Kartik, his curiosity kindled.

“Mostly I go there to sit and think,” admitted Aman.

“About what?”

“Everything and nothing.”

Kartik found himself letting out a slight laugh and announced “You are very peculiar.” then his smile faltered. “Does Kaali or your mother know?”

“No, this is another secret you must take to your grave.”

“Gladly,” Kartik acknowledged. “If I did not know any better, I would say you trust me.”

Aman’s deft movements had paused, his fingers, lingering unconsciously on Kartik’s shoulder, in a slow downward movement against the jutt of his shoulder blade. Kartik repressed a shiver.

“You saved my life,” Aman repeated. “Maybe I…”

He stopped as if he was catching himself from saying something blasphemous. He did not speak for a while, his fingers left Kartik’s turned to get the third the salve. Kartik felt their absence keenly.

Aman poured some of the salve on to hand and applied it to Kartik’s shoulder. The massaging had begun in earnest now. Aman’s hands, or rather Aman himself, already seemed to know exactly which way the muscles needed to be probed, pushed, or flattened. He already seemed to know exactly the amount of pressure required for every movement. Kartik wondered who taught him this.

“You said you trusted me that day in the temple,” said Aman after a while, his voice quiet, but as sharp and as clear as cut glass. “My father always said trust goes both ways.”

“Well, there is a thing unheard of,” Kartik remarked, not without a hint of derision. “Trusting the very man you swore to kill. The man who killed your father.”

“I made an Oath before the gods to trust you,” said Aman evenly. “I can fulfill this oath at least."

_____________________________________

Song for this chapter was the [Andhadhun Title Track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qg81Dh1Ot-I)

Anyone who picked up the GoT reference has my respect <3


	26. The Names of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Mehan for helping me figure our politics and some dialogue and to Dhyan for helping me with some of the *redacted* Dhyan you know what I'm talking about here.

Nothing is ever truly gone 

And nothing ever truly remains

Dead and the living have this in common

We are its thrall bound in its chains

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Sunaina remembered the last time her family supped together. It had been ten years ago, just before Shankar had set off to fight in the Battle of the Broken Will. She along with Shankar, Kaali, Chaman and Champa had been eating their food in a comfortable lull of meaningless conversation. 

Aman had just celebrated his eleventh name day and was sitting beside a thirteen-year-old Keshav and an eighteen-year-old Rajini, chattering excitedly about all the presents he had gotten. He had liked the wooden warrior, from his father, the best, and was trying to make Rajini fight it with her spoon.

“I will be back soon,” Shankar had said. “The new Akhtari king is an idealist, mother’s milk still fresh on his lips-”

“He is a boy, scarcely older than our Guddu. You can hardly fault him for it. Besides they say his mother died six years ago.” Sunaina had said. 

She had been thinking about it alot then, how the new king of Akhtar had no one to help him rule. She did not want her Guddu to face the same fate.

At that point, Aman had thrown his wooden toy warrior into Kaali’s bowl of sweetened rice pudding. Shankar had given an indulgent smile then as their son apologised ever so sweetly to Kaali, asking for his toy back. Sunaina knew her husband to be ruthless and cruel in matters of kingship, but none could doubt he loved his son.

“What would you have me do Sunaina?” he asked. “This boy, you say. scarcely older than Aman, was the one who ordered that accursed Commander-In-Chief Parmesh to take back Balkar. Balkar is ours.”

“Treat with him,” Sunaina suggested. “Make peace, give him Balkar if you have to. But by the gods, I have had enough of the war.”

“You’re as bad as Chaman.” Shankar had sighed. “Very well I will do all I can.” 

His smile once again became indulgent again and he looked at Aman, wiping his rice-pudding covered toy warrior furiously with the table cloth. Rajini was reprimanding him for ruining the tablecloth, but Aman did not seem to care.

“When I am back,” he had started. “I think you and I should have a holiday, just to the two of us, maybe we can run off to the Golden Wood.”

“And what of the kingdom?”

“Aman can rule in my stead,” Shankar had joked. “You know yesterday the little devil snuck into the council room and when everyone left he started  _ correcting  _ me.”

Sunaina had held his hand under the table and had smiled “A holiday in the Golden Wood then.”

Of course, it had never happened. He had gone to Balkar. He had even heeded her advice, so Kaali said and had tried to send Akhtar a message under the banner of peace. But the banner had come back bloodied, the messenger dead. Shankar had fought, Shankar had died and it had sundered the Tripathi family. Aman had indeed fulfilled the dead king’s words and ruled in his stead. But it had taken all boyish innocence away from him and left him as a man she did not recognise.

Now here they all were again, for the first time ten years, taking a meal together. Though Shankar was not here for the reunion his absence was filled, not entirely, but it was nonetheless filled, by Kartik as well as his two advisors, Devika and Parvaaz, and the physician Qabid, who was said to have been like a father to him.

She wondered what Shankar would have made of this, the Tripathi family welcoming the man who killed him as their son-in-law and breaking bread with him.

_ Shankar is dead.  _ She reminded herself.  _ His opinion is of no matter, not anymore. _

The conversation around the table had broken off into smaller groups with Devika in deep conversation with Chaman and Kaali about some state matter or another. Keshav, Qabid, and Parvaaz were deep in an intellectual argument while Rajini chatted happily with her Champa, Kusum, and Sunaina herself. Sunaina only half-listened to what they were saying, her ears now picking up snippets of the conversation between Kartik and Aman who sat at the head of the table.

Aman wore a worried expression on his face. “You should not slouch like that...the binding-”

“Gods Aman you are worse than Qabid.”

“Good because at this rate you’re going to hurt your shoulder again.”

It was then that Sunaina noted the white linen bandages peeking from the collar of Kartik’s shirt. Sunaina felt that anxiety that emerged whenever Aman used to hurt himself as a child.

“Did you injure your shoulder Kartik?” she asked.

She said it louder than she had intended. The lull of conversation around her had died down, all turned to face Kartik. Aman did not meet her eye and Kartik looked at her seemingly embarrassed.

“It’s an old war wound,” he said quietly. “It hurts when I overstrain it. Aman has been helping with the salves and has been constantly scolding me.”

She did not ask how he had overstrained it. Frankly, she did not want to know, their embarrassed expressions spoke enough. She also did not have to ask which war. She wondered if Shankar had been the one to give him the wound. 

“Aman has always had healer’s hands,” she said. “Ever since he was a little boy. I remember him begging the tutors to tell him more about the human body and healing herbs. Sometimes he would take himself down the physician's quarters and watch. When his father was here, it was Aman he trusted to massage the old hurts.”

“No wonder your hands are so deft,” Kartik remarked to Aman. 

“Can you two please abstain from talking about  _ that _ at least until after breakfast is finished,” said Rajini.

Kartik glared at her “That was not what I meant.”

“What was your meaning?”

“I meant to say that only Qabid really knows how to massage it properly. I was surprised Aman picked up on it, having only really been taught once.”

“Most impressive,” agreed Qabid. “How much do you know about the arts of healing your majesty?”

“Not enough,” Aman admitted. “Our best physician died five years ago and I have been too busy to take up studies with anyone else.”

“I have not had an apprentice for years,” admitted Qabid. “It would do me a great honour to share my knowledge with a promising young man such as yourself. We can use Kartik as a patient. He is always getting himself into all sorts of foolishness.”

“I think you are mixing twelve-year-old Kartik with twenty-four-year-old Kartik,” replied Kartik himself. 

For a moment Sunaina thought that Aman would refuse Qabid’s offer. But he did not. He smiled at the old man.

“Starting from tomorrow then?” Aman asked. “I could spare a few evenings, every week.”

When he smiled, Sunaina realised, it was that same soft boyish grin that had been characteristic of his childhood.  _ Was this all because of Kartik?  _ Somehow her heart managed to love Kartik just a little more than she already did.

“Your physician's lessons will have to stay on hold until the spring,” Sunaina reminded him. “The Phulantari festival is coming up and arrangements must be made.”

“Phulantari?” questioned Kartik, then he translated it to Akhtari. “Flowering stars?”

“It’s the spring festival,” explained Kusum. 

“So like our Gulnaziri?” asked

_ Flaming flowers.  _ Sunaina mentally translated. 

“I suppose so,” she answered. “I confess I do not know much about your Gulnaziri.”

“We can blame the Great Burnings for that,” said Parvaaz.

“It would be better shown than explained,” said Devika. “Next year during the spring you should make arrangements to stay in Khorshid.”

“The same can be said about the Phulantari,” chimed in Chaman. “It is better shown than explained.”

“But the mythos behind it-” started Keshav.

“Perhaps Guddu can tell him during the celebrations,” said Sunaina. “My own father did the same during my first Phulantari at Chandan.”

“Guddu?” asked Kartik. “Who’s Guddu?”

Aman’s cheeks were a deep shade of scarlet that almost rivalled the red on the Akhtari banner. Sunaina was about to answer when Rajini answered for her.

“It’s our pet name for Aman,” she explained. “He’s had it since he was a boy.”

The expression on Kartik’s face was both morose and somewhat pleased.  _ When was the last time anyone called him by anything, other than King or Kartik? _

“Did you ever have a pet name Kartik?” asked Sunaina, curious.

“My mother used to call me Bubla, before she died,” he explained. 

Much more he did not say. Sunaina considered what he had just told her. 

“Well I cannot go around having a pet name for one son and not the other, people will accuse me of playing favourites.” she stated. “With your permission, may I call you Bubla? Not all the time of course-”

“You can call me whatever you like.” came his answer, and with it came a smile so sweet and so sad that it made her want to embrace him more than anything. 

Before she could do so however the Master of the Gate, Zutin, arrived in the hall. 

“I am sorry to interrupt,” he said. “But a dog has been delivered to the palace gate. The woman is very insistent on two noblemen by the names of Tariq and Quasar in the service of your majesties.”

The names were unfamiliar and Sunaina knew every nobleman or noblewoman who was in the service of the kings. 

“It must be Gabru,” said Kartik indifferently, Aman let out an exasperated sigh at the mention of the name. Kartik ignored him. “Bring the dog in here.”

“In this hall?”

“Why not?” Kartik paused. “Has anyone else seen the woman or dog?”

“Only me.”

“Tell her, thank you. And if anybody else asks, tell them the dog it is mine, brought especially from Khorshid.”

The messenger bowed and left. Moments later he came back leading an excited shaggy dog of golden brown colouring and great floppy ears. It looked freshly groomed and extremely delighted to be in the presence of so many people. As if recognising Kartik it bounded up to him.

“When and where did you acquire him?” asked Devika, with a hint of amusement. “And why Gabru?”

“It's a good name,” said Kartik.

“It’s not,” Aman insisted, glaring at Kartik who was scratching the canine’s ears. 

“As you wish  _ Guddu _ .” Kartik’s voice was as cloying as a vat of honey.

Then came Aman’s sharp response “Fuck off  _ Bubla _ .”

“You have better manners than that,” said Champa. “What have I told you about swearing while eating?”

It was an old rule of Champa’s. When Aman was eight he had taken to spending his time with Rajini and her soldiers. Unfortunately he had picked up on their language too. The first time Aman had repeated a foul word in her presence, she had gotten up, taken him by the ear, and had given him the finest dressing that Sunaina had ever seen. 

By invoking that old rule now it felt...it felt almost like old time.

Aman turned to his aunt and had the grace to apologise.

Sunaina had an inkling of what may have happened with the dog, she found herself smiling. Shankar had often snuck out of the palace with her when they had been young, in the early years of their marriage he had shown her the secret passages. He had taken her to dusty inns, sat with her on vacant rooftops under the starlight and sometimes with only the moon as their witness they would go wading in the Godsblade.

That had been the Shankar she loved best. The Shankar who had been hers.

“In Khorshid,” started Qabid. “Kartik would often come home with a stray after a day wandering the streets.”

“He had a whole menagerie at one point,” added Devika. “Cats, dogs, pigeons, one time he even brought in a lizard.”

“They needed good homes,” Kartik said. 

Sunaina wondered whether it was more than that.

~~~

Soon after breakfast, the kings took audience in the throne room. Instead of the usual one throne that had been the norm for the last ten years, two thrones now stood on the dais. Kartik’s one was slightly smaller than Aman’s, being the throne usually reserved for consorts. He did not seem to mind however. One of his titles, after all, was King Consort of Mahan, just as Aman’s was King Consort of Akhtar.

Behind them was a great banner of light purple and on it embroidered a gold lion with silver eagle wings, standing proud with a raised paw.  _ Things have certainly changed  _ thought Chaman  _ and for perhaps the better.  _

For one, no animals of any kind had been allowed in the halls during Shankar’s reign. But now, the shaggy gold-brown dog, Gabru, sat at the foot of Kartik’s throne, lazily regarding all the courtiers gathered.

Being back in Chandan felt strange for Chaman, usually, he was the center of the court, propounding new brilliant laws and reforms. Now he watched from the sidelines as the two kings considered matters of state. Some were petty, others great, yet they sifted through all of them together and Chaman found it enjoyable to watch.

Though there were many petitioners that came before the kings, it was clear that the purpose of this gathering was not merely to hear disputes over goats, or help dissolve property feuds. In the end Aman called the steward, Bodha before him.

Bodha had been supervising the upkeep of Chandan ever since Chaman was a young man of twenty and still, the old man was in good health. In fact, looking at him now- though white-haired, he was still broad shouldered and tall- Chaman could almost believe he would not look out of place amidst a battlefield.

Bodha knelt in front Aman who rose from his throne and addressed the gathered courtiers.

“As you all know,” he started. “In four months' time, my husband and I will be taking up residence in our nation’s new capital, Shafaq. Though I hope to make new memories in Shafaq, memories filled with love and laughter, I will leave Chandan with a heavy heart. These walls hold many memories of my childhood and above all, the love you have given me. In order to consecrate and protect it, I am granting the jurisdiction of this city to Bodha.”

Aman approached Bodha, placed his hands on the old man’s shoulder, and helped him rise.

“You have ever been a loyal steward. For this reason, I name you Lord of Chandan, to you I leave the city and the crown jewels of Laksham first King of Mahan. I need no oaths of fealty from you.”

Aman made a gesture and a servant came forth bearing a purple velvet cushion, with a great bronze medallion at its centre. Aman took it in his hands, studying it once he placed it around Bodha’s neck. 

A great cheer rose from the hall. Bodha stood strong and firm, he gave no word of thanks, he did not humble himself. It was a thing Shankar had liked about him, the man knew his worth. 

“Thank you all for your presence,” said Kartik. “By your leave, the small council will now convene to discuss private matters of state.”

There was a great bustle as the courtiers and petitioners started to file out. Chaman himself started to leave with Sunaina when he heard a voice call out.

“Wait Uncle,.” 

Chaman turned around. 

“I want you to stay for the council meeting,” he said. “I was wrong to have left you out of this for so long, but I think we may need all the help we can get.”

_ Need all the help we can get?  _ That phrase bore no omen of goodwill. Chaman regarded him. He remembered Aman as he had been then, eleven years old, his features hardened by anger. 

_ Leave me.  _ He had said.  _ Leave me and do not come back.  _ Yet here he was asking for help from an Uncle he had exiled. 

“It would be an honour.” said Chaman. 

“Mother?” asked Aman.

Sunaina shook her head silently. “Ten years of helping you rule in your father’s stead was enough for a lifetime, let an old woman have her rest.”

With that, she left and Chaman took a seat beside Devika, the young woman who was an advisor to Kartik. They had worked together on the treaty with Eskabad. She was a brilliant stateswoman with a sense of logistics that Chaman envied. He himself was often too caught in the big picture to properly consider them.

“What is this matter that requires the help of a retired statesman?”

“A  _ gifted _ retired statesman who managed to weather the court under the reign of King Shankar,” said Aman. 

Kaali turned to him, just as he did when it was just the three of them, Shankar, Kaali, and Chaman himself, sitting in these very halls discussing all sorts of matters between them, not always matters of state. 

Those memories held laughter, camaraderie, and certain pleasantness. Kaali’s words now held nothing but doom.

He spoke now of the attack on Kashatr, the declarations of war, the true reasons for the marriage, the sea-steel dagger, and their suspicions regarding the involvement of the Southern Isles. All the missing pieces in this whole situation finally came into place for Chaman. He found himself looking at Aman now.  _ No,  _ he thought and not without a certain satisfaction  _ he is nothing like his father. _

“And thus Aman and Kartik went to the inn to talk to the Southerners.” finished Kaali.

“So what did come from your investigation last night?” Parvaaz addressed the two kings.

Kartik turned towards Aman. Chaman found that he did that often as if he was asking permission. Aman nodded and Kartik turned to them and spoke.

“We met with a few traders, friends of this Viper King apparently,” he frowned. “There were six of them here on business, trade, though I think they were more interested in what was in their cups and between their legs rather than trade.”

“So you got nothing?” asked Devika.

“Not so. It seems they have Northern ambitions,” replied Kartik. “They seemed very loyal to their king and would have followed him if he wished to conquer.”

“There was a prophecy too,” added Aman. “I don’t remember it, not truly.”

“I do,” Kartik started.

Aman seemed genuinely puzzled at this “You only heard it  _ once _ .”

“I have an ear for poetry.”

“You forget, it was a  _ prophecy _ not a poem.”

They both smiled as if it were a joke that only they would understand.

“The  _ traders _ have no ear for poetry,” said Kartik. “Not all have to rhyme.” 

Then he started on the prophecy in the southern tongue:

_ The dark star falls when two kings wed _

_ In their wake comes the glass mosaic _

_ Shattered songs forged in blood do not break _

_ In the light of their shadow  _

_ When the time comes to three _

_ The viper will rise from his watery grave _

_ He will be king of two lands _

“A load of dung,” huffed Parvaaz. “None if it makes sense.”

“Which makes it poetry,” said Rajini.

“When the time comes to three?” asked Keshav. “Three what?”

“Three months I think.” it was Devika who spoke. “Except it does not add up.” 

“Why does it not?” asked Kartik.

The realisation suddenly hit Chaman. “The prophecy requires a marriage between two kings. What happened in Balkar, the attack on Kashatr should have ensured war. They could not have predicted this marriage.”

“Besides,” added Aman. “They were far too brazen with their intentions at the inn, it is not entirely consistent with the secretive nature of the attack.”

“The Southerners, at least those who are loyal to the king, are as proud as we are,” said Kartik, wincing, as if he carried bodily evidence of their pride. Chaman remembered the talk during breakfast about his shoulder and reports of the fight at the inn of the Laughing Moon. “They would not resort to conspiracy.”

“What of the sea-steel dagger?” asked Kaali. “Surely-”

“Lavanyan did mention infighting,” said Kartik. “Perhaps there was a faction that has split off and decided to plunder Mahan and Akhtar since it is clear King Naveen has the support of the people and this prophecy. Maybe they are trying to upset his popularity by conquering, or at least attacking first..”

There was silence and Chaman thought about this. 

“I think you are right in the sense that a faction may have split off from the Isles,” said Chaman. “But maybe they do not seek to attack or conquer or even undermine the Viper King. They would have been more open about it.”

“Before the knowledge of the Viper’s King’s rise did we not agree that it was mercenaries?” asked Devika. “We cannot assume that everyone desires a crown or acts in loyalty to one, even with this prophecy. Perhaps they are Southerners but those that desire nothing but gold.”

“Someone hired them,” stated Rajini. “Someone who may be of Akhtar and Mahan, for it is clear to me that the rulers of Eskabad and the Isles have no part in this. Akhtari or Mahanite nobles, too most like, mercenaries do not come cheap.”

“Someone in court,” said Aman. “The conspiracy was too well planned for it to be some petty lord in a far off country estate.”

“How do we find out who it is?” asked Kaali.

There was another long silence as Chaman thought about this. 

“We wait.”

“Wait?” asked Kartik, incredulous. “We cannot wait...we…”

“We will wait and watch,” Chaman said. “The less we do, the more frustrated they will become. Whoever conspired this has more than enough patience. We need to play their game. Given time, they will falter. They are human after all.”

“We cannot just sit back and wait for another slaughter like Kashatr!” said Kaali.

“There will not be another slaughter like Kashatr,” announced Chaman. “Their focus will be more internal now knowing that trying to split the countries apart through war did not worl. This marriage was not something they predicted, indeed not something anyone predicted.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Aman.

“They will be focused on breaking up the marriage by any means possible.” Chaman looked between Kartik and Aman. “You need to make sure there are no cracks which they could pry open. In the eyes of everyone else, you need to seem as if you are utter in love. ”

“I do not think  _ lovemaking _ will be the issue.” Rajini chipped in with the face of someone who had seen and heard too much for their liking. 

“It’s all the bickering,” agreed Devika. “Gods know I’ve had enough of it. Even breakfast-”

“Aman is too uptight.” Kartik interrupted. 

“I would not have to be,” came the even reply of the man in question. “I would not have to be if you would take care of yourself more often.”

“Even Gabru knows you do not like him, you’re making him sad.”

Aman glanced at Gabru who was fast asleep at Kartik’s throne.

“I don’t think he cares,”

“He does and you should apologise to him.”

“He’s a dog Kartik!”

“You do not think dogs have feelings?”

Aman sighed “We are in a council meeting, deciding the future of our nations, not-”

“Speaking of which,” Keshav cut through the rising argument like a sharp knife. “We need to plan for the festival and I think it will be a perfect opportunity for you both to show our enemies how your love for each other is infallible."


	27. Flames, Flowers and Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Mehan for the beautiful art of the festival which I will link below. Also thank you to Hrtika for the amazing depiction of Kartik's wedding outfit (forgot to link it last chapter so I will do so here). More thanks Dhyan for keeping me motivated with songs and also helping me with the outfits. Also thank you to Shreya, I appreciate your words more than you know. Also shout out to my irl gang because why the hell not, they deserve it.

Tonight, we will set the flowers on fire

And they will become stars

The rivers flowing from my eyes turn to flames

It will burn away the ice that was never ours

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

The rest of the winter was spent preparing for the festival. People from all over Mahan, from all walks of life, would be coming here to Chandan. Provisions had to be made and extensive ones at that.

Rajini knew that Sunaina had wanted Kartik’s first Phulantari festival to be a complete surprise, but that proved to be difficult especially since he was so intimately involved in the preparations. Even so they managed to keep a few traditions a secret, one of them being the most important tradition of them all, setting the Godsblade alight.

Rajini and practically everyone else had been so busy in the remaining weeks of winter that they barely had enough time to talk about matters of state. They were deemed all the more irrelevant since her father had urged them all to wait. 

She had been so busy, in fact, that she and Kusum had not found time to practice combat. She had barely seen the other woman in the past week. Their strenuous preparations, as Rajini was proud to observe, did not go to waste. 

The various tournaments, presided over by the kings were conducted to near perfection. The champions had been announced in various contests ranging from those of combat to those of singing. There was enough food to feed the pilgrims who came to Chandan and enough rooms or tents to house them all.

After a day spent presiding over various contests with Kartik and Aman and supervising the final touches for the night’s preparations Rajini found herself back in her room.

She had about an hour or so before they would all meet in the courtyard to make their way down to the banks of the Godsblade river, she had decided to spend it resting in her rooms. Gods knew she deserved it.

But when she finally got a good look at the room she realised that the servants had set out an anarkali for her, it was an ash-coloured, almost black, with sleeves that would most likely reach here elbows. Despite its dark colouring one could definitely not call it dreary. In fact, it was embroidered tastefully with gold flowers, reminding her of sunlight piercing through shadows. 

The servants should have known better. For ten years she had not worn an anarkali or any other dress for that matter. Most people thought she had no taste for dresses, being a warrior. That was not true. Though she had ripped apart quite a few of her mother’s dresses with her first knife when she was a child she always found herself admiring them. When she lost an eye, however, she had vowed to never wear a dress again.

The servants knew that. Why put a dress before her now?

That was when she heard a knock on the door of her chambers.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It’s me Kusum.” she paused. “I haven’t seen you the whole week.”

Rajini found herself smiling at the very sound of her voice. “Come in.”

The door opened and when Kusum stepped in, Rajini finally understood why the poets compared their lovers to spring and flowers. For Kusum looked like a rose in the very epoch of its bloom. She was wearing a saree of some sort of white gauzy material, as light as mist and just as elusive. On it were sewn pale pink roses that looked almost real. Her hair was neatly twisted into a loose coil by the nape of her neck held in place by several rose gold pins in the shape of various flowers. She wore no other jewelry. 

“You look beautiful,” Rajini managed out.

By the gods she did, Rajini’s eye, her damnable eye, was utterly transfixed on the exposed section of her midriff that peaked out from the side of the gauzy rose laden drapery . It felt like a sin to study her so, but it seemed equally sacrilegious to turn away. The skin looked smooth with lightly etched lines revealing hardened muscle, Rajini supposed she had their training sessions to thank for that. It took everything in her power to stop her hand from reaching out to simply find out how her skin would feel against her fingertips.

“You’re not dressed?” remarked Kusum, Rajini could almost hear a hint of disappointment at those words.

“I think I am fine as I am.”

Rajini did not need to look down to know how drab her own attire looked.

“You never dress for the festival. I thought it was because you were busy every year. So I chose this for you. If I knew you did not like dresses I would have-”

So that was why it was there. Hearing this was enough to make Rajini want to wear it.

“I like them,” Rajini said. “But-”

“But?”

“You are going to find it silly.”

Kusum smiled “Try me.”

“Ever since I lost this,” Rajini pointed at her bad eye. “I always thought there was no point. No matter how pretty the dress, everyone will see the eye, the warrior. Not...not me, not the girl who loved pretty things, not Rajini.”

“You are mistaken,” Kusum’s voice was soft. “Not everyone, certainly not me.”

Rajini was not sure how to respond to that, so her eye went to the ash coloured anarkali. It was a pretty thing after all.

“You did choose it for me,” said Rajini. “It would be remiss of me if I did not wear it.”

When Kusum smiled Rajini knew then and there that the feelings that she had been trying to deny for so long, the feelings of love and affection for this other woman, could not be denied even in her own heart. But Kusum did not need to know that. Not yet. 

Rajini took the anarkali in her arms and went behind the screen while Kusum went to the dresser to fix her own attire. 

Rajini had thought she would have forgotten after ten years, forgotten how to put on the layers and do the intricate lacing. But she had not. Her hands moved with the same deftness that allowed her to wield a sword.

All that remained in the end was the lacings in the back, which ended up being something of a struggle. Kusum noticed and came towards her, stepping around the screen and wordlessly started lacing the back of her anarkali. Sometimes Kusum’s fingers would accidentally brush against her spine and Rajini would suppress the involuntary shiver that ran through her body.

“Turn around.” Kusum demanded when she finished the last of the lacing.

When Rajini did as bidden, turning around to face the other woman, Kusum’s eyes widened, her lips parting slightly. Rajini could not help but feel a little self conscious at the lack of response.

“Maybe I should take it off,”

“No!” came Kusum’s cry. “No, gods know, you…”she grinned. “You should take a look at yourself.”

With that, she took Rajini’s hand and led her to the mirror. Rajini finally found the courage to look up at it. The dress was beautiful but she...the grisly scar over her eye stuck our prominently.

“It’s no good,” said Rajini. “They will notice the eye.”

“And then what?” asked Kusum. “They will know you fought bravely once, they will know the sacrifice you made.”

“But in this anarkali? Don’t you think it would be better suited to someone less fearsome and someone more beautiful?”

“You think this scar makes you less beautiful?” asked Kusum. “Cannot one be beautiful because of their scars? Can one not be both fearsome and beautiful? So what if they see it? So what if you wear an anarkali as well? You are not just a warrior, neither are you just a woman. You do not have to be confined to one role, you are Rajini Tripathi, scars, anarkalis and all.”

Kusum, still standing behind her, reached out and took Rajini’s braid in her hands and started to undo it.

“Would you like me to pin it up or leave it down?” she asked as she gently ran her fingers through her hair.

“Leave it down?” suggested Rajini.

“Can I add a few pins? Gold ones? Do you have any?”

“It doesn’t look like I can stop you.” said Rajini laughing. “They are in the drawer.”

Kusum leaned forward and pressed her cheek against hers. Her smile was content. Rajini couldn't help but marvel at the two of them standing beside each other in the mirror. 

They were like two gardens. Kusum the garden of the day, the garden of happiness, a garden that reminded you of strawberries, cream, laughter and the scent of roses. Whereas Rajini was the garden of the night, where daffodils shone gold in the moonlight, where the songs of heroes were whispered into the shadows, the garden of bones and gold, tinged with the scent of lavender that tickled your throat.

Rajini never felt more lovely.

~~~

Champa was sitting with Sunaina in her room. Kusum had left only an hour ago, and Sunaina had dismissed their handmaids. She was helping her sister-in-law with her earrings. Sunaina’s eyesight had gone poorly in the last few years, though she was loath to admit it in front of everyone else. 

“Do you remember our first Phulantari in Chandan?” asked Sunaina. 

“How long ago was it?” Champa found herself asking. 

“Thirty-five years ago I think, we were sixteen then.”

Sixteen, bold, vivacious and prone to fits of laughter. Champa could not help but smile at the memory of two girls, standing at the banks of the Godsblade, with the clay oil lamps in their hands watching as King Deenanath set the first one the river, as was tradition, followed by his Queen, Diya.

It was also when the two of them had met the Crown Prince Shankar and his younger brother Prince Chaman. Of course, she had not known it then, she had only thought Shankar intelligent and proud, while Chaman was silver-tongued, quick-witted and bold. 

_ Thirty-five years, has it really been so long?  _

But she also knew where this conversation would be heading. Treading these old memories with Sunaina would no doubt bring up the topic of Chaman. The past and Chaman, it seemed, were irrevocably entwined. Champa decided to shift her sister-in-law’s focus elsewhere.

“Enough of the past,” she said. “We will only start lamenting at how old we have gotten, what of the future. Have you spoken to Guddu about heirs? Now that he is married, no doubt in a few years there will be pattering of little feet around the palace of Shafaq. I know how you have always wanted grandchildren.”

“I have not broached the subject with him or Kartik just yet,” admitted Sunaina. “There is peace in these nations for the first, there is no need to hurry them.”

_ No need to hurry them _ . Champa remembered well the strain that Sunaina had been through during her first ten years married to Shankar. Shankar could not care less whether they had a child or not but that was not the view of most of the court. They were in the middle of war and kings died like flies. An heir needed to be produced Everyday they would watch the way Sunaina ate, the way she walked, to see if there was any indication of her being with child.

Champa remembered once, when Sunaina was twenty-three, three years into her marriage with Shankar, she had completely broken down. Cursing, weeping. Her hair had been a tangled mess, her shift crumpled and bloodied from yet another miscarriage.

_ I hate you all.  _ Champa could still hear her words, as clear as if they were being spoken.  _ I hate you all, just leave me be. Let me die in peace. I failed. _

It had been ten years, ten years of miscarriages and heartbreak, before Sunaina conceived Aman. Champa could have sworn she was the happiest woman in the world at that moment. The love she had for her Guddu, her only surviving child was like no other. 

Champa finished affixing Sunaina’s earrings; it was then that she heard a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” asked Sunaina.

“It’s me Bhabhi.” came the voice of Chaman. At the sound Champa found herself stiffening.

“Come in,”

Champa did not even have time to give Sunaina a glare, Chaman came in and Champa put on an armour of cold courtesy. It was a hard armour to put on for he looked especially dashing today, His garments were powder blue, the shoulders and chest embroidered with flowers. She herself was wearing something of similar colouring. She wondered if Sunaina had something to do with it.

“Hello Champa,” he said politely.

“Hello Chaman,” she managed out.

There was a long awkward silence. Sunaina put on a smile.

“I realised I needed to speak with one of the servants about something.”

“I should go-” started Chaman.

“No stay right here, I will have to talk to you later as well.”

With that Sunaina left, leaving the two of them alone. Chaman's eyes met hers, almost appraising, but at the same his look was fearful. 

“You look…lovely,” he whispered. 

“So do you.” she said politely.

When he smiled then, Champa almost wanted to reach out, take his face in her hands and hold him. But she did not. She dared not.

“How…” he started again. “How is everything?”

“They are getting better,” she admitted. “The children are pleased that you are here.”

Keshav and Rajini loved their father more than anything. They had been heartbroken at his exile and would visit him in his country estate as often as they could. Now that he was there, there was certain brightness in their eyes, that had not been there for ten years. 

“And what of you?” he ventured. 

And there it was. That boldness that had made her love him so. 

But before she could come up with a diplomatic answer the door of the room opened. In came Kusum in a flurry of white and pink with Rajini in tow. Their hands were clasped and both were laughing. Rajini stopped short at seeing both her parents together in the room. It seemed to Champa that her mirth had now been siphoned off to curiosity, Rajini let go of Kusum’s hand.

“Mother,” she acknowledged. “Father, I did not expect to see you here.”

“Your Aunt wanted to speak to me,” explained Chaman. “She’s gone off now to speak to some servant or another. But enough of that.” he came forward and placed his hand on his daughter’s shoulders. He smiled at her in a way that seemed almost sad. “You are absolutely beautiful, I can hardly believe you were the little girl who used to rip up your mother’s dresses.”

Rajini did indeed look beautiful in her anarkali of dark ash and gold, her hair unbound with a smattering of tiny gold pins. She reminded Chmpa of some fearsome deathly goddess. It was the first time in ten years that Rajini had dressed for a festival, she wondered at what magic Kusum possessed that had coaxed Rajini into a dress.

Rajini answered her father with an embrace.

“Papa, I will always be that little girl, do not doubt it.”

“I would rather you refrain from having your knives anywhere near my dresses.” said Champa with a smile.

Rajini pulled away from Chaman and smiled at her mother “I will try my best.”

~~~

Gabru spent most of his time either by Kartik’s side or in the kennels with the other dogs. Kartik would have let him sleep on their bed if Aman had not expressly forbidden it. For tonight though the dog would be safely tucked away in the kennels. Aman for one was glad, it would be no good having a dog tailing them around the Phulantari festival. 

They both were in their rooms, changing into the clothes laid out for them for the evening’s festivities. 

He finished doing the last folds of his turban when he heard the voice of Kartik behind him. 

“I have your Kalgi,”

Having spent over a month being married to each other, Kartik it seemed was now starting to understand Aman’s habits, just as Aman was starting to understand his. 

For one Aman knew that Kartik liked to take long baths whenever he was nervous, he also knew that he liked to have a glass of water by his bedside, and that he had to take a sleeping draught to stave off the nightmares. 

Kartik stepped forward and pinned the gold and pearl kalgi on Aman’s turban. When he was done he stepped and for a moment they stood to study each other. Though they had been in the same room for an hour it was only now that Aman finally got a good look at him.

Kartik was wearing a white sherwani of light floral lace that flared out at the waist, it was emblazoned with gold across the collar, the chest and the shoulders. His turban was also white, with a gold and pearl kalgi pinned to it. Aman himself was wearing a similar cut, except his sherwani was bright pink, patterned with embroidered white flowers throughout, with a dupatta of pink embroidered with gold. His turban was a rich plum, with a kalgi that matched Kartik’s. 

Aman found himself rendered speechless at the sight of the other man. He was radiant. There were no other words to describe him. Aman knew even now that under the light of the Phulantari lamps, he would stand out, like a star against the night sky. 

He knew he should talk, speak, say something, anything. He knew he should turn away lest eyes betray him. But he could not. Neither of them could. Kartik opened his mouth as if to say something, but three light knocks at the door rendered those words unsaid. 

“It’s me Qabid.”

“Come in,” Kartik said. 

The door opened and the old man came in. Despite himself Aman had nurtured affection for him, especially now that he was going to teach him more in the arts of healing.

“I wanted to see how much of the sleeping draught you had left,” said Qabid. “It’s high time I made a new batch.”

“I should have a little left,” said Kartik. “Let me check.” He went to the bed stand, opened the vial and frowned. “There’s none.” 

“Kartik you know it takes me at least three days to prepare the draught I-”

“I’m sorry,” said Kartik. “You know I have been busy.”

“I cannot fault you for it,” admitted Qabid. “I am worried though, I know how horrible the nightmares can get, perhaps you can take some of the opium-”

“No,” said Kartik. “Never again. I will manage three nights.”

Aman was not so sure. There were nights when even the sleeping draught would not work. Aman was a light sleeper, so whenever Kartik would wake with a jolt, breathing, heavily sweating profusely, trying to regain his composure, Aman too would wake. 

Aman would watch as Kartik would look around the room in a state of panic, taking in deep breaths, as if reassuring himself he was safe, before getting up, putting a robe over his bare shoulders and pacing the room. Aman would watch the other man though still shaking from the dreadful nightmare, he would start gently humming to himself. Aman found himself wanting to get up too, wanting to comfort him like he did that night in the temple, but he would not. He could not. 

He would pretend to be asleep as he watched the other king through half-closed eyes. Sometimes Kartik’s eyes would fall on him and his grim features would be transformed by a soft smile. Sometimes if the sheets had twisted in a way that they did not fully cover Aman, Kartik would come forth and would quickly straighten them, tucking them around Aman more securely.

Despite himself Aman savoured those moments. He kept them, those moments, the memories, like little secrets, in his heart. He would take them to his grave. 

One thought remained in Aman’s minds, always on those nights, it came to him now.

_ What horrors lay in those dreams of his?  _

“Besides,” Kartik continued talking to Qabid. “Aman said the celebrations go on for most of the night, I do not think there will be much time to sleep.”

“You are not dressed Qabid,” noted Aman.

Indeed the physician was still dressed in his grey robes. Not entirely fitting for a festival.

“I should get started on Kartik’s-”

“You worry far too much about me,” said Kartik placing a hand on the physician’s shoulder. “You should enjoy the festival tonight. That is an order.”

“I am an old man Kartik, I-”

“And you do not have that long to live? Precisely why you should come with us.” said Kartik. 

“Only you can reference my impending doom with affection,” Qabid sighed. “As you wish.”

“You should go with my mother,” Aman suggested. “She will be glad of some company and her seating is very comfortable. Besides the Phulantari never disappoints, even after so many years of seeing it I find myself in awe every time.”

Qabid smiled at them. “Then I do not want to miss it.” he bowed and left the room, leaving the two kings alone again.

“We should go too,” suggested Kartik. “The festival starts at twilight does it not?” 

“You know it does,” said Aman, the corners of his lips curling up. “You’ve asked that at least a thousand times.”

Aman knew what Kartik was trying to do. He had been trying to wheedle out the huge tradition for a whole month and Aman prided himself in the fact that everyone managed to keep it a secret from him. For once the other man’s charm did not win out. 

“Not even the servants would utter a word about it in my presence.” complained Kartik.

“All the better,” said Aman. “Come we must get to the courtyard.’

“Is this tradition held in the courtyard?” asked Kartik as he turned to the door. “Thousands of people from all over Mahan have come, it couldn’t possibly be in the courtyard.”

“You will learn soon enough,” said Aman. “Let’s go.”

The two of them left their rooms and made their way down the palace halls. It was eerily quiet, no doubt most of the servants would already be at the banks of the Godsblade, awaiting their arrival. When they finally arrived at the courtyard, there was no one there, save their armed escort of guards and Devika. She was wearing a lehenga of a light green so bright that it was almost blue, with a gold leaf pattern embroidered throughout. 

When she saw the two of them she smiled. 

“For once you two aren’t late. Has Aman grown tired of you already?” she asked Kartik.

_ No never.  _ Was the involuntary answer in Aman’s head. He cursed himself for even thinking it but it was in a way true. His eyes would sometimes find themselves on Kartik and each time they would collect something new. A new angle, a new caveat. He even had different smiles for his different moods.

“He was too excited,” said Aman. “In fact, he was worse than Gabru can be just before his evening walks.”

Devika reached out and patted Kartik’s jaw “Dog.”

Aman had come to learn that it was how Devika displayed her affection for Kartik. He found himself envious of it. Yes he had Keshav and Rajini, but they were cousins. They had no choice  _ but _ to be his friends. 

Kartik half-heartedly swatted her hand away, with a smile that seemed both pleased and annoyed. 

“Do  _ you _ know about it?” asked Kartik.

Devika shook her head. “I have been told nothing.” then her attention was riveted to what was behind them.

Aman turned to see his mother wearing muted orange, holding Qabid’s elbow. Qabid had changed from his grey robes to ones of deep russet, he was laughing genially with Sunaina. Behind her were Keshav and Parvaaz both in shades of green, as well as his Aunt Champa and Uncle Chaman in powder blue. Kusum was also there, looking as breathless and as beautiful as ever.

Aman’s eyes however fixed themselves on Rajini. He had not seen her dress up for the festival in ten years, not since she lost her eye. He remembered once she had tearfully admitted the reason for it. He had not been sure how to help her then, but he was glad, beyond glad that she felt confident enough to put on an anarkali once again.

“You look lovely,” he told her once she was in hearing distance. “Fearsome and lovely.”

He must have said the right thing because her smile was the brightest he had seen for a long time. 

“Kusum chose it,” she admitted. “It’s a beautiful dress.”

“You make it beautiful,” said Kusum. “Trust me on that.”

“We’re going to spend far too long complimenting each other,” said Sunaina. “I think we should agree here and now that everyone looks splendid.”

“A wise decision,” affirmed Chaman. 

“Is there where the special tradition happens?” asked Kartik.

Sunaina laughed as if he had said the funniest thing in the world and even Aman had to admit that his excitement had a certain endearing quality. 

“Shall we start off then?” asked Keshav. “We need to make to the-”

“Don’t say it.” interrupted Rajini. “You’re going to give it all away.”

“None-the-less we have to be there before twilight.” Champa agreed. 

The sun was already starting its lazy dip down the horizon. Without much ceremony, they started on the journey outside the palace gates, into the city and eventually out of it. Kartik tried to (unsuccessfully) coax the tradition out of Kusum. That was another thing that Aman had noted, where Kusum should have understandably hated Kartik, she too seemed to have developed a strange sort of affection for him. 

“If I didn’t know any better,” said Kartik once they were outside the city gates. “I would say we are going to the Godsblade.”

“You do not know better,” muttered Aman. 

But indeed they  _ were _ going to the Godsblade, the river that ran from the mountains in the north all the way to the sea in the south. The whole of Mahan, well most of Mahan anway, would be gathered at its banks along the whole stretch waiting for the king to set the first lamp in the water.

For years since his father’s death, Aman had to perform this duty by himself. He remembered being terrified the first time he had done it, he remembered the clay oil lamp shaking in his hands. He also remembered standing his ground and walking forward with a determined gait. His mother said he had looked like a king then, but she said it in a way that made it clear that no eleven-year-old boy should have to bear that title.

It would be pleasant, comforting to have someone else with him. Even if it was Kartik, the man who had forced him into the position of king in the first place. 

When they finally reached the wharf where the kings and queens before him had set their candles, Aman felt a grip on his wrist, he turned to see his mother.

She said nothing but merely placed a small bundle in his hands. He did not need to look inside to know what it contained. He had been doing this alone for so long that he had forgotten one of the other traditions. 

Here the others bid them good luck and went to ornate open tents that had been erected by the banks of the river. Aman put the bundle his mother gave him in one of his pockets, before taking out something else from one of his others.

“What are you doing?” asked Kartik. 

Aman showed him. In his hands was a small oil lamp, made of clay, and a wad of cotton. The realisation did not seem to have hit Kartik yet, he stared at the lamp and the cotton wad as if it were some alien thing.

Aman walked to the wharf and as always Kartik followed him silently. It was not yet twilight, and not everyone was here. Aman had time to prepare. He knelt at the edge of the wharf and took a moment to look at the Godsblade under the light of the setting sun. The river gleamed with the muted glitter of hot coals. 

“Your country is beautiful.” Kartik knelt beside him, his eyes roaming over the landscape.

“Our country,” Aman reminded him. The combined nations of Mahan and Akhtar may not have a name yet but this marriage meant that they were in fact united. Aman would honour that with his every word and action.

Aman placed the clay lamp in front of him before rolling the wad of cotton between his fingers. Kartik seemed to watch him with curiosity. Aman placed the cotton in the lamp. As practical as always one of the servants had already placed a small jar of ghee near the burning brazier. 

Aman opened and filled the open cavity in the lamp with it. 

“What now?” Kartik asked.

“We wait,” said Aman. 

So they sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun rage furiously as it was forced down the horizon. The sunset this evening was brilliant, defiant and envious, it’s colours flouted carelessly as if to say  _ no matter how many little candles you light, you could never replace me.  _

As the sun went the crowds came. Aman could taste their eagerness as well as hear it.

Finally, there came the last sun’s rebellious rays. Aman knew what he had to do. He had been doing this for ten years after all.

Still kneeling, he took the lamp in his hands and put it next to the flaming brazier . Soon it was alight. The flame burned high and narrow at first taking a shorter more bulbous shape.

Aman turned to face Kartik and proffered the burning clay lamp towards him. Kartik stared at it, the tiny flame seemed to dance in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.

“Hold it with me.”

It was tradition for the reigning king or queen to set the first lamp afloat, followed by their consorts. Though officially one of Kartik’s titles was Consort of Mahan, while Aman’s was Consort of Akhtar, the truth remained, they were both born to be kings and they would both die as ones. It was only right that they both set the lamp afloat, together.

With an unusual tentativeness Kartik cupped his hand on the other side of the lamp, their fingers touched, and this time they did not simply brush over each other but stayed as they had once done that night at the temple. Not for the first time, Aman felt like his whole body had been set alight. 

Kartik’s eyes met his again and this time his voice was almost a whisper “What now?”

Aman gestured to the river before. Realisation finally filled Kartik’s eyes as they widened, the flame in their hands still dancing in his dark eyes. Then he smiled. For Aman, the smile was brighter than any lamp, brighter than the sun, or a thousand suns.

“They are waiting for us,” Aman said.

Indeed it seemed as if the world had stopped to watch with bated breath. All Aman could hear was the gentle lapping of the Godsblade and Kartik’s breathing. Finally the other king nodded, his hands tightened around the lamp.

Together they faced the river. Together they lowered the lamp. Together they watched as it floated, alone, yet alive and burning. For a total of a minute, their lamp was the only one on the river. Then it was joined by more. 

No matter whose hands these lamps came from, no matter their make, against the darkness of night they all burned bright, they all burned together. 

Usually, Aman’s eyes would be transfixed on the river, but not now, not tonight. He had seen this many times. Tonight he watched Kartik, watched as his lips parted, as his breath became slower, fuller, watched as his eyes widened. 

He watched Kartik’s eyes most of all and the way a thousand lamps glittered in them. It reminded him of that night in the temple when he had seen him weeping and how the torches had transformed his tears to molten fire. The light of the lamps had turned Kartik’s eyes into a starry night sky.

“I’ve never seen anything like it” Kartik whispered faintly into the night. But Aman heard him as he always did. “Keshav said there was a myth behind this.”

Aman nodded “So there is. I am not sure of how much overlaps with your spring myth. I know Noor too is one of your deities.”

Noor was god, goddess, and neither. The third part of the holy trinity. Child of Shamsheer and sibling to Okhine. The moon and sun were their thrall. 

“Tell it to me anyway,” said Kartik. “Tell it to me as if you were to tell a child who knows nothing of gods.”

And so Aman started:

“Years ago when the gods still walked the earth. The Great Enemy rose from the depths of the earth. The mother goddess, Shamsheer sent her son, Okhine, to fight him. Three times he fought and three times he won. His victories and his very presence gave hope to the gods and mankind alike. The fourth time however he was captured by the Enemy and tortured. 

“He had his eyes gouged out during the torture. Rather than stay and receive more brutalities to his body and or to be killed by the hands of a dishonourable enemy, he killed himself. Through this act his soul dispersed into every human being, and for the first time, humans could dream.

“His mother Shamsheer hearing of this despaired and fell into a deep sleep, the earth around her withered and died and turned to ice. His sibling Noor, took the sun and moon and left the earth not wanting to be in the same place where their brother died. The earth was plunged into darkness.

“The people however now filled with dreams, also had hope. They weathered the age of winter and sang and prayed to their gods to come back. One day Noor, now in the very depths of the universe, heard their songs and came back. Seeing the wretched state of the earth they wept tears of flame that melted the ice and awoke Shamsheer.

“The mother and child acknowledged their grief and moved on. However every year on the day of Okhine’s death, Shamsheer would fall into melancholy again and Noor would take the sun a little further from the earth and mourn, making it winter. After their annual mourning of three months, they would reunite and the flowers would grow again. To honour Noor’s tears, the people of Mahan set any body of water alight with clay lamps to represent Noor’s flaming tears.”

Kartik turned to the river, with the story in his heart, he looked at it with what seemed like newfound awe.

“And you do this every year?” he asked.

“Yes,” Aman confirmed then he paused, a thought came to him. “You mentioned your own spring celebration. The Gulnaziri. How do you celebrate it?”

Kartik was still watching the lamps on the water as he spoke. “Our myth is the same. Except instead of tears, Okhine took some of the rays of the flaming sun in his hands and threw them to melt the ice from the earth. So our celebrations are during the day. We dress in white and throw dyes at each other to represent the return of colour.”

“It sounds beautiful.” Aman wanted nothing more than to see it with his own eyes.

Kartik turned to him and smiled “Next year then.” he said. “Next year, I will take you to Khorshid and-” 

He stopped speaking abruptly. Aman knew what he was thinking for the dreadful thought lay dark and heavy between them. Kartik would be dead by then, at Aman’s own hand.  _ There would be no next year. _

He found himself wishing that it did not have to be like this. Wishing that the vengeance was not there. Aman tried to imagine going to Khorshid the following year and seeing the Gulnaziri. He tried to imagine being there without Kartik. Somehow the faint whisper of this yet to be made memory seemed empty.  _ There will be no colour in it, not without him. _

He could not even curse his treacherous mind then.

Aman watched as Kartik’s features darkened. The sheer awe had now transformed to sadness and it hung over him like a noose. Aman had to admit that despite Kartik being his enemy despite him being the man who killed his father, he could not bear to see him hurt. He wanted...no.

Yes...he wanted to see him smile again. He did not want him to stop smiling. At least not for the rest of the night. 

_ I need to help him forget.  _

An idea came. 

“I almost forgot,” Aman reached into his pocket and took out the bundle his mother had given him. “There is one more tradition.”

Kartik turned to him, his saddened features curious once again. That was something. Aman opened in the bundle and in it was a cashew barfi. Aman smiled at his mother’s forethought, they were his favourite after all. He broke the barfi in half and proffered a piece towards Kartik, who’s expression became confused.

“In Mahan, during Phulantari, feeding each other halves of the same barfi auspicious,” explained Aman. “Especially for married couples.”

Kartik smiled at that and opened his mouth. Aman placed half of the barfi in it, his fingers lightly brushing against the other man’s lips. They were slightly chapped by otherwise undeniably soft, Aman could not but think of their kiss during their wedding, the ache and burn he had felt then, came back redoubled.

“It’s your turn now,” said Aman. 

Kartik took the barfi from the opened bundle, balancing the piece delicately between his fingers before placing it in Aman’s mouth. All the while their eyes met one more time, Kartik’s thumb lingered lightly at Aman’s lower lip, before he gathered his composure and hastily took it away. His eyes wandered to the myriad of lamps now shimmering in the water.

Suddenly Aman knew exactly what to do. He took Kartik’s hand and started to get up, dragging him to his feet.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You really think I’m going to let you sit on this wharf for the whole night. Come, mother and the rest will want to feed us more barfis and after that, we’re going to have fun.”

~~~

True to Aman’s word Kartik was fed more barfis-halves than he ever imagined he could handle. To say he loved the phulantari festival was an understatement. Every time he closed his eyes he could see a thousand lamps burning on the Godsblade. It was a memory he wanted to tuck away. It was a memory he would take with him when he died. 

With the sweetness of countless barfis on his tongue and the pleasurable scorching that Aman’s touch had left on him, Kartik allowed himself to be dragged away from the Royal Tent into the dark night illuminated by the Godsblade. They had taken off their turbans and kalgis, left them behind in the tent. Aman’s hair was slightly mussed, it gave him an almost boyish look.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asked. 

“Joining the celebrations,” said Aman.

“I can see that,” said Kartik. “What are we doing when we get there?”

Aman turned to him, his smile was sheepish. “I’m not sure.”

Aman was not one to be spontaneous, in fact, it was he that was often reprimanding Kartik for it. But tonight it seemed, in his flowing pink sherwani, his wild hair and large smile Aman had let go of all inhibition. He looked, under the lamplight, like a fiery dream, reckless, impetuous. His eyes flashed with something akin to mischief. This was something Kartik found he rather liked. 

“What happened to being in public sight?” Kartik asked. “To showcase our love? Like Keshav said-”

“I don’t feel inclined to care.”

So Kartik allowed himself to be led to whatever unknown pleasure awaited them in the celebrations. 

Around them the children were lighting firecrackers, laughing raucously, screaming with delight as they raced around each other. He wondered briefly if Aman had been one of those children once, before Shankar’s death. An image of Aman sitting at the wharf by himself as an eleven year old boy, setting the first lamp into the river, came to him. A lone figure against the burning river. A fatherless child.

_ Maybe I do deserve this death in the end. _

Aman’s eyes flickered towards him as if sensing his mood. Suddenly he dragged Kartik to the side and Kartik found himself being led to a makeshift vendor. The seller, a man in his mid-twenties perhaps only slightly older than Kartik, was frying some dish or another.

“You have never had Chandan’s street food yet have you?” Aman asked. 

“It’s a little hard when I have spent all my days in the palace.”

Aman’s smile then became wicked “How do you feel about trying a sample of everything?”

“After all the sweets your family have been plying me with? It’s like you Tripathis are on a personal mission to ruin my perfect figure.”

“It won’t be ruined after one night.”

“So you agree that it is perfect?”

Aman merely sighed, he had long given up on trying to argue with Kartik, when his words walked the fine line between arrogance and flirtatiousness. 

“Alright, I’ll try everything if you insist.” Kartik acquiesced. 

And so he did. Aman made sure of it. Some of the foods he recognised, they had similar ones in the streets of Khorshid. Others were completely unfamiliar to him and those were the ones that Kartik enjoyed the most. He had even tried the fried, spiced snails, something which even Aman, who had been eating street food since he was a child, would not venture to even touch. 

Surprisingly by the end of it he did not feel like he was going to burst at the seams, in fact, he felt energised. He felt ready to jump with joy. He felt drunk, even though he had had no wine in the evening. The two of them ended sitting on one of the large rocks at the banks of the river simply watching everything around them.

In front of them someone had taken up a pipe, another a set of drums, and someone else a stringed instrument. They had started on a merry tune and the people were joining in on the dance. Kartik was looking at Aman who was watching them with certain contentment. 

He looked just like the man he had known from that night in the temple, and a far cry from the king who had boldly said he wanted Kartik dead.  _ Does he still want me dead?  _ Kartik wondered.  _ Truly in his heart does he want that? _

The thought of death weighed down on him again. He had enjoyed much of the night, looking at the lamps, spending his time with his advisors and the Tripathi’s, and eating all the street food with Aman. He had enjoyed it so much that he had forgotten that he would never do this again. 

A part of him knew that this was all the more reason to cherish it, but another part could not help but despair. 

Aman’s eyes met his “What is it?” he asked. 

Kartik shook his head and tried to smile. But his smile must have come out strangled for Aman regarded him with furrowed brows. He expected Aman to say something, anything, but he did not. He merely looked back at the dancing crowd. 

Suddenly Aman rose and turned to Kartik. He held his hand out towards him with all the sensitivity of a new lover.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked.

  
  


Kartik remembered their wedding when he had said those very words Aman. Then he had to coax Aman into the dance, by reminding him that they had to keep up appearances. But they did not have to keep up appearances now, not many people here would recognise them as the Kings. All in all it baffled him.

For a moment all Kartik could do was stare up at Aman. The glow of the lamps illuminated the other man’s eyes, somehow they seemed larger, more full of life. There was also a determination there too. 

_ I could drown in those eyes.  _ Kartik thought to himself.  _ I could spend a thousand years looking into them and never truly have explored their depths. _

“I can’t very well dance by myself,” said Aman softly.

“Aman I don’t-” what could he tell him? “I don’t think I know the steps.”

Aman burst out laughing “You are a better dancer than I, if I can do it, you can probably do it better.”

When Kartik did not respond or even move, Aman undid the pink and gold dupatta from his shoulders. In a swift motion, he placed it around Kartik’s neck. His smile was impish. His eyes seemed to glitter more fervently with a strange sort of fury.

“Don’t make me drag you there,” he teased, tugging at the dupatta.

Reluctantly Kartik got up and allowed himself to be led into the dancing crowd. Once they were in the middle Aman let go of the dupatta and turned to face him. He fixed him with that searching gaze of his.

Kartik’s hands went to his neck where the dupatta now lay. He ventured to take it off and give it back when Aman stopped him.

“Keep it,” he said. “It looks better on you.”

A slow smile crept to Kartik’s lips at the words.

“Well, aren’t you going to dance?” Aman asked. 

“Only if you start,”

Aman grinned with almost reckless abandon and he started. His movements, as always, were graceless, more suited to a dying gazelle than a young man of twenty-one years. But perhaps it was the light of the burning Godsblade combined with the blazing starlight, or maybe it was the raucous music or even the way Aman smiled. But to Kartik, Aman, dancing here and now was the most beautiful thing in all of existence. 

And Kartik knew then what he felt for this man was nothing other than love. Perhaps he had always known, perhaps he had always loved him, since the night they first met. But he felt it now, more than ever. He felt it as a tree feels the lightning that strikes it, burns it and then kills it. 

  
_ May the gods forgive me _ Kartik thought to himself as Aman’s flashing eyes met his.  _ He is all I need _ . 

_________________________

I'm just going to jump in here and thank Mehan for their beautiful art of the [Phulantari](https://www.instagram.com/p/CBTI-XHly3X/). Also thank you to Hrtika for your amazing depiction of [Kartik's wedding outfit](https://twitter.com/Hrtika101/status/1268075156603199489?s=20). I meant to link it last chapter but I hope its not too late :). Please shower them both in praise they deserve it.

Also for the clothing, my inspirations were as follows:

-[Aman](https://www.instagram.com/p/BmE7N5bhKEG/)

-[Kartik](https://images.app.goo.gl/cGWZuHCZMN1JyCgw5) (+Dupatta)

-[Rajini](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3unEA_Fx3N/)

-[Kusum](https://images.app.goo.gl/rZymtGQMygozyHrs9)

\- [Keshav and Parvaaz](https://twitter.com/AashniUK/status/1203722201809088512/photo/1)

\- [Devika](https://twitter.com/intnsmoz/status/1251960498880483329/photo/2)

Songs for this chapter:

\- [Jashn-E-Bahara](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3dx8wbwlP8&t=147s) from Jodhaa Akbar (the vibe for the whole thing especiall Kartik angsting)

\- [Scars to Your Beautiful](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWASeaYuHZo) by Alessia Cara (for Sunflower scene)

\- [Starlight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jTyAa2unWQ) by Taylor Swift (Chaman/Champa), 

\- [At Last, I See the Light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9SAUq5-V7o) from Tangled (Aman POV)

\- [Mere Liye Tum Kaafi Ho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LBB6OV3Ano&list=PLEGJBUf-v8A4j47uATBLFZX5ImGKmIekp&index=30&t=0s) from Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (Kartik POV)

\- [It’s Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sENM2wA_FTg) (another vibe)


	28. The Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im sorry. that is all.

These old haunts hold us captive

The dungeons are made of dreams

Hold my hand, my love, my life

Together we wait for the sun’s first beams

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

At first Kusum had enjoyed her time at the Phulantari. After the setting of the lamps, they had plied Kartik with barfi halves. Though he had protested furiously, complaining loudly about how it would ruin his figure, the sweets kept coming his way. He spent a total of an hour in the royal tent before he was led out by Aman to the gods knew where. They had even left their kalgis and turbans behind. 

When they had left Sunaina had quickly drawn Qabid into a conversation about Kartik and his childhood. Kusum was only listening in half-heartedly, she knew most of it already, Kartik had told her. They all laughed as Qabid told them of how Kartik had once set fire to his mother’s favourite slippers as a seven-year-old boy and Sunaina had relayed a similar tale in which Aman had stained her favourite dress with black ink apparently practicing his letters. 

However, when Qabid finished explaining how the Queen Lekisha and the little Princess Ofira had died he would go no further. 

“It is not my tale to tell,” he said simply.

Sunaina’s eyes had softened at that. A heaviness lay in those words, a heaviness of tales hidden in the pitch black of night. Tales that no man would dare shine a light upon. 

“Tell me about you then.” ventured Sunaina. “You must be an accomplished physician for the king to trust you so.”

Qabid bowed his head in acknowledgment and started to speak of his education.

Kusum liked the old man, but the conversation held no interest for her. In fact, her eyes continually wandered to the woman beside her. 

Rajini was silently watching the burning Godsblade. It was well into the night now and the lamps had taken on a fierce gleam. They reflected the gold on her dress as molten flame etched onto an ashen mountainside. Her smile was as serene as the Godsblade itself. 

“What are you thinking?” asked Kusum. Rajini had been quiet for some time.

“I was thinking,” she said. “Perhaps my title would one day merely be honorary.”

“How so?”

“Mahan and Akhtar were each other’s biggest enemies and now…” she pointed to Kartik and Aman’s abandoned kalgis and turbans. “In a few months, I think we might have peace, true peace. Commander in Chiefs do not really do much in times of peace.”

“In a few months?” asked Kusum. “I thought all threats were neutralised when this marriage…”

“Not all,” said Rajini. “There are always threats from within, the common folk are one thing but not everyone is court was happy with the marriage.”

_ I know.  _ Kusum thought, her mind turning to Rakesh and their plan. 

“If there are any traitors,” said Kusum. “I would gladly ride out by your side and fight them with you.”

_ Lies, all lies. I myself am a traitor.  _ But Rajini’s smile made her glad she had said those words. 

“Yes and I suppose they would write songs for us?” asked Rajini. 

“They will call it  _ the sun and her flower, _ ” Kusum replied jokingly, taking the literal meanings of their name. “They will sing it for generations to come.”

Rajini’s smile grew wider and for a moment Kusum forgot the burden of betrayal.  _ She is beautiful.  _ Kusum admitted to herself.  _ The most beautiful woman in the world.  _

It was then that Devika got up from her seat beside Parvaaz and Keshav and came towards them. Though she and Kusum had been in the same room on many occasions they never truly had a chance to speak. 

“Keshav and Parvaaz are talking about some new flying contraption or another,” she said. “I thought the conversation would be more interesting here.”

Rajini grinned at her “We were only talking about songs”

“This is already to my taste,” she sat down beside them and turned to Kusum. “You are Kusum are you not? Lord Acharya’s daughter. Kartik speaks fondly of you, he even calls you little sister.”

Kusum felt the old guilt rise within her again, seeping into the unadulterated moment of forgetfulness. It was a guilt that had become familiar, but that did not make it any less painful. 

“He is like a brother to me too,” said Kusum politely.

Despite her resolve it had turned out to be true. She enjoyed spending time with him.

“Do you have no other family?” asked Devika. 

Kusum thought of her little brother, her father, her mother.

“They are dead,” she told the other woman.

“I am sorry,” Devika’s usual clipped confident tone turned apologetic. “I did not know.”

“You have not been here long,” Kusum acquiesced. “They were killed five years ago. I do not remember much, they say I was held captive, I must have lost much of my memory then.”

Her real family had been killed ten years ago during the Battle of the Broken Will. But she could not say that she was not Kusum the daughter of a farmer here, she was to play the part of Kusum Acharya. The only surviving member of Lord Acharya’s family.

In all her years here she had tried to forget about Lord Acharya and his daughter, the other Kusum, the Kusum she was pretending to be. But it was moments like this, when she was brought back to the reality of her situation when she remembered the other girl.

She had been twenty just like Kusum. Slender and beautiful, with laughter that could fill the whole room, Kusum had been half in love with her. Rakesh had just escaped his third prison then and Kusum had found a position as handmaid to the Lord Acharya’s daughter, to save money and buy their passage to the continents in the south. Rakesh had taken up a position as a guard. Failing at their savings at the end of six months, they were to steal jewels from Lord Acharya’s treasury. 

Often the two Kusums would swap places, when they got bored of the drudgery of their respective roles. It was what had saved her in the end. What allowed her to be here today.

Devika turned back to the burning Godsblade. “Your festival is beautiful.”

“You have not seen all of it yet,” said Rajini then she turned to Kusum. “Neither have you I think, you’re always sitting with Aunt Sunaina.”

“There is more?” asked Devika.

Rajini grinned at Devika and Kusum. She rose and turned to the opening of the tent. 

“Come we do not have all night.”

So Rajini led them through the celebrating throng. She showed them the pettier rituals, the firecrackers, the food, the dancing, the music. This admittedly was far better than previous festivals, where Kusum would sit by Sunaina talking with other nobles. This felt more freeing, less cloying. 

Every time she turned to Rajini she could not help her heart feel lighter. She could not help but forget Rakesh. Forget their plan. Forget that she was a commoner. Forget who she was. In those moments she truly felt like the other Kusum, daughter of Lord Acharya. The woman Rajini thought she was. She had been playing the part for so long it was easy to slip into forgetfulness.

The three women it seemed were surrounded by starlight. But Kusum knew her luck. It never lasted. Nothing ever did. While dancing with both Devika and Rajini she had stopped dead in mid-move, she spied a familiar shadow from the corner of her eyes.

Rakesh. 

She had not seen him, not since their return to Chandan. Truth be told there were moments when she forgot even he existed.  _ Where is the love I had once held for him? _

Rakesh made a gesture.  _ Meet me in the gardens.  _ He left as quickly as he came and Kusum stood stunned on the spot. 

“Kusum,” it was Rajini, she had noted her sudden stillness. “Are you okay? Did anyone...”

“I thought I saw someone I recognised,” she said, turning back to Rajini, smiling. “It was nothing.”

The rest of the night passed more quickly than she wanted. It did not hold the beauty of the forgetfulness. Rakesh was not far from her mind and not even Rajini’s smile could move her from her melancholy. For every time she saw it Kusum could not help think of the betrayal that she would bring about. 

By the time they got back to the palace, when everyone else was in bed Kusum found herself in the gardens once again. They were in full bloom under the slender spring moon. As always Rakesh was late. 

When he saw her, his face broke into a smile, the great large smile she had once loved so well. He rushed to her and held her as if he had not seen her in years. As if he never wanted to let go. 

“I missed you so much,” he whispered.

“Where have you been?” she asked, pulling away, not wanting to stay in his arms for too long. “A whole month…”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re together again, are we not?”

He held her face in his hands and kissed her forehead tenderly. She could almost forget the way his hands had tightened around her throat. His hands then went to her throat, down to the exposed section of her midriff.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered.

“Do we have a plan?” she asked, hoping to divert his attention and his hands at least for tonight.

“We do,” he confirmed. “Do you remember Lord Dasmesh and his son Madhav?”

“Of course I do, Madhav was betrothed to  _ her _ .”

She remembered the other Kusum then, laughing and whispering about Madhav in the middle of the night as they lay side by side. The young noblewoman and her handmaid. They had been like sisters.    
  


“I will be coming to court disguised as him,” said Rakesh.

“And then?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why not?’

He pulled him closer to her “I just need you to trust me. All will be revealed in time.”

“Mandhav is dead,” said Kusum. “You cannot possibly pull it off.”

“Presumed dead.” Rakesh reminded her. “No one found his body.”

When Dasmesh had rebelled against the throne, thinking Aman weak and ineffectual as a ruler, the first fortress he had attacked and claimed was Lord Acharya’s. He had put the family and the servants to the sword. Almost all of them. But at the bidding of his son he spared Kusum Acharya. Or at least the woman he had thought was Kusum Acharya.

By a stroke of luck, that day the other Kusum had decided she did not want to attend court and had asked Kusum if they would swap places today. Kusum had not minded that as much, she quite liked being in court, she quite liked acting the lady. So they would swap veils, for Lord Acharya still kept to the stifling old ways of having his women veiled, and she would be given Acharya’s ring, and the other Kusum would go off to the gods knew where, while Kusum would exchange courtesies with the others.

That day Kusum Acharya, being mistaken for a handmaid, had died by Dasmesh’s blade. Despite having his son betrothed to the Lord Acharya’s daughter he had not known how she looked like. He had taken Kusum as a captive. 

Aman, then a boy of sixteen, had ordered Kaali to take back the fortress. Which Kaali did. The confusion had been a perfect time for Kusum and Rakesh to make their escape. But Rakesh had plans, better plans. 

_ Why a lord’s jewels when we can steal the king’s? _

The only person who had known how the other Kusum had looked like was Mandhav. Rakesh never told her what happened to him. But Kusum had a suspicion that Rakesh was involved somehow. Mandhav had disappeared the day he was supposed to arrive to Lord Acharya’s castle to meet his supposed captive betrothed.

“Someone will know,” she said. “Mandhav was well known back then.”

“He was a boy then, he would have been a man now,” said Rakesh. “No one will know.”

“You seem so sure,” she remarked. The way he looked away made her realise that there was something going on, something he was not telling her. 

~~~

It was well past midnight by the time they returned to their beds. Aman felt strangely sated. He had spent the whole night with Kartik and he had loved every minute of it. He never felt so happy. If someone told him three months ago that he would actually enjoy spending time with his father’s killer he might have had their tongue ripped out for their impudence. 

Kartik sat now at the edge of their bed, applying the salves to his shoulder. Aman was lying on his back watching him.

“You missed a spot,” said Aman. 

He had not actually missed a spot but Kartik did not know that. 

“Where?” asked Kartik

Aman got up and placed a hand on Kartik’s shoulder. He found that in the last month he had been finding excuses upon excuses to touch Kartik. “There.”

“I just massaged it.”

“I did not see you doing it.”

“Perhaps you should borrow Parvaaz’s spectacles,” suggested Kartik. His tone was light but it belied a certain sadness. Or was it tiredness? “You should sleep.”

“You should too,” suggested Aman. “You must be as tired as I am.”

Kartik eyed the empty vial that stood next to the glass of water on the bedside. He grimaced but said nothing. Once again Aman found himself wondering what horrors lay in his dreams.  _ He’s scared.  _ Aman realised. 

“The more tired I am,” started Aman. “The less I dream.”

“You’re right,” said Kartik. “Maybe I'll sleep deeply tonight, deeply and dreamlessly.”

_ I hope so.  _ Aman thought.

They lay down on opposite sides of the vast bed, the space between them enough to fit three grown men. Aman fell asleep almost instantly. The last month had been beyond tiring, and tonight even though he had enjoyed his time, it had drained all the remaining energy he had left. 

He was not sure when he slept. All he knew was that his dreams were filled with stars, floating lamps, clouds of colours staining his skin, and Kartik. 

Kartik most of all, seemed to be the cynosure, the focal point of everything.

Yet no matter how sweet his dreams, no matter how tired he was, Aman was still a light sleeper. 

The lamps, stars, and clouds were dashed away by a loud sharp groan from the other side of the bed. Aman did not need to open his eyes to know that it was Kartik. He was loathe to admit but his voice had become recognisable, on the cusp of familiarity.

Groggily Aman opened his eyes and turned around to Kartik’s side of the bed only to see his face contorted into a myriad of emotions he could not quite place. The groans that escaped his lips did sound like Kartik, not the kind brave king he had come to know. 

His voice sounded terrified, more terrified than he had ever heard it. 

Aman had heard fear in Kartik’s voice before, he had heard the first night they met when the other man had wept and prayed for the fate of his people. He had heard it on the morning of their wedding. 

_ Scared?  _ Aman had asked.  _ Shit scared.  _ Had been his reply. 

But he had never before heard this kind of fear in his voice. The kind of fear that lay in the forbidden recesses of one’s soul. The kind of fear that was instinctive.

His groans at first were unintelligible. Wordless. But as they became louder and more frequent Aman was able to make them out. The words were Akhtari. In the court of Mahan Kartik took care not to speak it. But the primal fear had brought out his mother tongue. There were mainly three words that he uttered.  _ Baba. No. Please.  _

Aman was not sure what to do. Would waking him now make it worse? Would he be able to wake him up?

Kartik’s pleading got louder, his body twisted as if he were writhing away from something. 

“Baba...please.”

_ Not all scars are from battle.  _

The truth was laid out before him like a scroll, written in an ancient forgotten tongue, but it was not his to take up, examine or decipher just yet. Those words and the memories behind them were not his to hear. Not yet, not unless Kartik willed it. But that did not mean that Aman did not feel something stirring within him. 

_ If his father were here right now I would kill him, flay him alive and leave him to rot. No one deserves that, not even him.  _

Kartik whimpered. His words resuming their unintelligible nature. His whimpers soon became muffled cries, mixed with pleading. Aman watched as Kartik shuddered, cowered away from the hallucination of his father. Then the shuddering stopped. His body stilled as if in a trance.

“...didn’t mean to....” came Kartik’s voice, somehow his tone had changed. “...killing him...I swear…leave me be...don't make me go back...I can’t fight again...Baba no..”

Months ago Aman would have felt a sort of triumph hearing this. Knowing that his father’s death still haunted the killer. All he could feel now was pity. Any semblance of triumph that he might have felt was cold and bitter, ashes in his mouth instead of sweet gold. 

Kartik started to struggle now, writhing about the bed. The sheets twisted with him as he thrashed around wildly. Aman knew that if he went on any longer, he would injure himself, just as he had done in the morning after their wedding night. So Aman rose from his sleeping position.

He was not entirely sure if what he was going to do would make it worse. He was not sure if what he was going to do would even help. But he could not bear to see Kartik like this. Not now. 

He closed the space between. Navigating Kartik’s wild thrashing, he gently placed a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed, nudging him gently. It would do no good frightening him awake.

“Wake up,” he said softly but firmly, hands clutching the other man’s shoulder, nudging it with more frequency as Kartik did not wake. “Wake up, Kartik, please.”

Kartik, still in his dreamlike state, gave a cry and lashed out. His hands ventured to push Aman away to defend himself from harm. Sometimes they found their aim, Aman knew that by morning his own body would have a few bruises. But Aman persisted with a perfect balance of firmness and tenderness. 

“Wake up Kartik,” he urged. “Please.”

Finally, Kartik’s eyes shot open, he pushed Aman away, sat up, backing away from him as if Aman himself had been his tormentor. Kartik looked around the room frantically, breathing heavily, before his eyes finally fell on Aman. 

Aman barely had time to register Kartik’s lower lip trembling, barely had time to register the palpable relief in his eyes, before the other man came forward, wrapped his arms around Aman’s waist and buried his face in his chest. 

Then he wept.

For a moment Aman sat still, not knowing what to do. He could feel Kartik’s beard, his hair, his skin, but most of all his tears against his chest. He was not even wearing a shirt to seperate them. His arms found themselves snaking around Kartik, holding him tighter. He placed his own head on top of Kartik’s. He could not care less if his chest was wet with the Akhtari king’s tears. He would hold him for as long as he needed to. Aman caressed his shoulder, the scars, his neck, ran his fingers through his hair, whispering assurances, that he was safe, he was in their room. Whispered that it was only a dream. It was not real. He whispered them in Akhtari. 

There was a saying in Mahan that there was nothing more comforting than one’s mother tongue.

“No one will hurt you,” Aman found himself saying at one point. “Not while I am around.”

Kartik for the first time looked up, his gaze was discerning. Then he attempted a smile. He looked wretched, beyond wretched. A seaside village ravaged by a great storm.

“Because I am yours to kill, is that it?”

Aman knew it was Kartik’s attempt at a joke, but it was too close to the truth. A truth that Aman was steadily finding unpleasant as the days went by. 

_ It matters not,  _ said a part of his mind.  _ It matters not that he is kind, or that he is one to pity. He still killed your father. It may haunt him, but he still did it. He was still the man who drove the sword down your father’s throat. Honour compels you to avenge him. _

Yet was there honour in killing an enemy that was already broken? 

_ You swore an oath in front of the whole of Mahan that you would bring him to his knees and kill him. You must honour your oaths. _

_ I swore an oath to be his friend too,  _ he thought to himself. _ To bring him comfort and wipe away his tears _ .  _ If I am to honour my oaths I want to honour all of them in all the time we have left. _

Aman reached behind Kartik and handed him the glass of water that sat by his bedside. He held it up to Kartik.

“Drink it,”

Kartik accepted. Drinking the water seemed to relax him visibly. Though the gods knew what roiled in mind even now. 

“Thank you,” said Kartik after a while. Whether it was for the water, or the embrace, or waking him, Aman was not sure. But he knew what he needed to do.

He put the sheets aside and started to get off the bed when Kartik held his hand fast. His grip was like a vice. He looked up at Aman, eyes both fearful and pleading.

“Where are you going?” his voice was raw, as if freshly scraped.   
  


“To get Qabid,”

Kartik held him tighter. “No, please,” those two words sounded eerily like the pleading in his sleep. “Stay with me. At least for tonight. I don’t want to be alone.”

Aman turned to face him, he sat back down the bed, close to Kartik. 

“I will be right here for as long as you need.” his fingers tightened around Kartik’s own and he held their joined hands up for Kartik to see. “You can take my hand as captive, hold it for ransom if you do not believe me.” he thought about how the sleeping draught would not come until three days later. “You can take it captive whenever you like for as long as you need if it makes you feel better.”

The smile on Kartik’s face this time was genuine. 

When they went back to sleep then, it was hand in hand. A strange bedding arrangement for a married couple. Aman watched Kartik, watched as his eyes closed again and he drifted off. He stood vigil over Kartik for the rest of the night, like a warrior on the eve of their knighting. Like the gods were said to have stood vigil over every child.

It was the least Aman could do.

____________________________________

Songs for this chapter: [Let it Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqFP_4uzBkw) James Bay, and [Burn Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcJ6Vv9pMeA) by Imagine Dragons

  
  



	29. Bruises and Bites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Dhyan for the songs and discussions that keep me going. The song 'Like Real People Do' was suggested by her this chapter. So I will link it below as well as Naina da Kya Kasoor.
> 
> Also yes Mehan I know you have been waiting for this chapter for a while. I hope it was satisfactory. As for everyone else, YES THIS CHAPTER IS VERY VERY SEROTONIN. I PROMISE. IM NOT LYING.

Draw your sword and kill me if you wish

As sweet as a kiss will be its sharp bite

May blood and sand be my witness

I got not alone into the cold dark night

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic._

When Kartik awoke the next morning from a sweet dreamless sleep he found Aman was still beside him, watching him through half-closed eyes. Aman’s hands stayed true to their captivity, their fingers remained entwined.

The deceptiveness of youth ensured that Aman did not really show the signs of weariness. But Kartik suspected otherwise. 

“Did you sleep?” he asked Aman groggily.

“As much as I could,” Aman admitted truthfully. 

Their hands were still clasped in each other's, neither of them ventured to move. Kartik’s eyes wandered over Aman, as they often did. On his shoulders and his torso there light bruises. Kartik knew they were not there before last night.

“Did I do that?” he gestured to the bruises. “I’m-”

“Do not apologise,” Aman’s voice was gruff, he did not meet Kartik’s eye, he took his hand away from Kartik. Where warmth had once been Kartik only felt the cold. “Do not thank me either. It was the least I could do.”

“Not thank you?” Kartik found himself echoing Aman’s words. “Not apologise. The bruises-”

“What of them?” Aman asked. 

“I hurt you.”

Aman regarded him. His once calm features taking on their characteristic wrath. 

“Hurt me? You cannot hurt me any more than you already have.”

Kartik knew exactly what he was thinking.

“You know I never meant to kill your father,” he said quietly.

“Oh? I suppose the sword accidentally went through his throat?”  
  


That was exactly how it had happened. But somehow saying it right now seemed counterintuitive. It was the first time they had mentioned it in the open. Kartik wondered what thoughts had roiled in Aman’s mind as they had lain in bed hand in hand. He wondered what it was like, Aman eleven years old, seeing that gaping wound at his father’s throat, under the thin veil of the funeral bier. He understood the anger and the rage. But he had not understood why Aman had let him take his hand.

“If you hate me so why seek to comfort me? Why not kill me now and be done with it? ”

“I swore an oath before the gods. I swore an oath to you. I swore an oath to my people.”

Kartik scoffed “Oaths have nothing to do with you. I am being brought up like a pig to slaughter.”

“You agreed to it.” Aman reminded him. 

“What you are doing is cruel. Lulling me with your kindness.”

“Would you rather I disregard all honour and treat you with contempt.” Aman’s eyes met his. “I cannot do that. I do not care if you call it cruelty.”

Aman rose from the bed, his back turned to Kartik. He went to the clothes that lay in his trunk he put a simple shirt on before strapping a sword to his waist. He made his way for the door.

“Are you leaving?” Kartik found himself asking foolishly. Of course, he was leaving.

Aman paused. He did not turn around. He did not face him. But Kartik knew that somehow those words had struck a chord with him. 

“Do you want me to call Qabid on the way?”

Though his voice was ice there was a certain concern in it. It only served to rankle Kartik further. Besides Qabid would worry too much, Kartik did not want to bring that upon the old man. 

“No,” he said. “I will be fine.”

No more was said between them. Aman left and Kartik was alone in their room. For minutes he sat on their bed simmering with anger and accusations all aimed at Aman. But in the end, he had to agree Aman was right, Kartik had agreed to this. He had no right to complain. 

He put his anger aside. 

Now there was nothing left to stop his mind from inspecting the residue of his nightmare. He had dreamed of his father. He had dreamed of _it._ He could still feel the way it had lashed at him and cut him. Torn his flesh. His body still bore the scars.

He had dreamt that his father was punishing him for killing Shankar and then had forced him into battle again, just like how he had thrust him into the daunting role of kingship while still a prince. He…

He did not want to think about it. Not now. Instead, he tried to focus his mind on the night before. The way seeing his face had brought on a rush of relief, like warm summer rain, seeping into his skin. He remembered the way he had held him. His arms had felt safe. His voice, speaking the words of Kartik’s own mother tongue, reassuring him. Here was another memory he would happily take to his grave.

_If there were any doubts,_ he thought, _on whether I truly loved him or not, they were dispelled last night. I love him more than I have any right to, more than I can ever admit to myself._

Love? If Devika knew, if she knew everything, she would have given him a stern talking to. He loved the man who would kill him. The man who hated him beyond anything else. The man who would one day drive a sword through his heart.

His thoughts were bitter but he knew in his heart, he would rather die by Aman’s hand than by anyone else’s.

“Get up Kartik Singh,” he muttered to himself. It would do no good sitting in bed the whole day.

He was not sure what to do. The court was not to be held this morning to accommodate the late-night celebrations. Everyone else would most likely also be waking up. He did not want to disturb their rest. Especially not Devika. She knew him too well. 

His thoughts came back to Aman and he found himself smiling, in spite of their recent argument. These arguments would rage on between them, that much was clear. But he only had five months left to cherish the man he loved.

_My love. My king. My ruin._

He may not be able to know him as a lover or a husband ought to, be he would be damned if he did not fill these last five months of his life with love and laughter.

  
  


He put on a shirt and strapped his sword to his waist. Outside a guard, a woman in her twenties was keeping a sleepy vigil.

“Do you know where Aman went?” he asked.

“He did not tell you?” she asked.

“I was half asleep,” said Kartik with a smile. “I think I may have missed it.”

“I’m not sure myself,” admitted the guard. “By the looks of it, he seemed pissed off. When he’s pissed off he goes to the training yard.”

Kartik vaguely remembered where the training yard was. He had gotten lost in Chandan’s palace more times than he could remember. One of the many reasons why he preferred to stay by Aman, Rajini, or Keshav’s side during the day.

“If you don’t mind me speaking out of turn your Majesty…” she started.

“Not at all,” 

“Do not worry so much,” she said. “I know it may seem like the end of the world. I felt it too the first time I fought with my wife. But the fights will come well and often. It is important to speak to them about it and move on. You do not want it to fester.”

“You heard us?” Kartik mentally cursed himself for not considering the guards when they had gotten into their argument. Another slip up like that could mean the end.

“Not the words,” the guard assured him. “I heard the tone well enough and I am not blind your majesty. I can see how both of you are very upset.”

Kartik considered her for a few seconds. “Thank you for your advice. I will take it on. Would you kindly tell me where the training yard is?”

The guard told him with a good-natured smile. Kartik prayed he would get there without getting lost. The training yard was an open arena attached to the palace. Kartik had gone there only once or twice during the last month to inspect the training of the guards and soldiers. He had been meaning to start practicing again, but the preparations for the festival as well as the various formalities as a newly wedded King Consort had taken up most of his time.

He had admittedly never seen Aman himself wield a sword and was curious to see what kind of fighter he was.

The training arena was eerily silent when he entered. The sand practically untouched save by two pairs of feet. 

The owner of one of the pairs, Aman Tripathi, stood in the middle. His father’s curved sword raised above him, a black small circular shield in hand. He stood poised as if he were a carving or a painting of an ancient warlord. He had long discarded his shirt and every line and curve were perfectly glorious, muscles taut with a slight sheen of sweat making it glisten under the light of the midmorning sun. 

That would have been enough in itself to stop Kartik in his tracks. But what surprised him most of all was the blindfold, over his eyes and the fact that Lord Bodha, the newly inducted Lord of Chandan stood before him, sword drawn. 

Bodha spied Kartik and raise a greying caterpillar-like brow. Kartik smiled at him gestured for silence and drew his own sword.

Bodha nodded before focusing his own attention on Aman, he started forth and attacked. 

Aman seemed to anticipate it well, blocking the attack with his shield, delivering a counterattack. Kartik had anticipated differences in Mahanite and Akhtari martial arts, but he had not expected this. He had not expected them to be practically similar. But he supposed he should not be surprised. 

Both countries shared weapons of similar make, curved swords and round shields, ensuring that there would be a focus on the movement of the wrists and intricate footwork, thus made it look more like a dance than a fight. The differences were slight and lay specifically in the practiced patterns. Where in Akhtar one would step left in Mahan one would step to the right. 

Kartik studied the pair.

Aman’s movements were graceful, with a hidden ferocity that was so well-honed it looked like languidness, it was almost hard to believe that this was the same man who was decidedly terrible at dancing. His footwork was excellent, lithe, quick and agile. Sometimes it seemed to Kartik that Aman was fighting Bodha in midair. 

In contrast the old lord was steadfast, fierce and merciless. Though aged, his every movement was deft and well-practiced. Kartik understood why Aman chose him for his sparring partner. 

Kartik watched fascinated as the two fought, the clash of their swords sung through the air. He was all the more awed for the blind-fold across Aman’s eyes. Parmesh had told him that one’s eyes were one’s greatest weapons. He could never imagine fighting anyone blind. 

With a resounding crash Aman blocked Bodha’s oncoming blow with his shield. When he tried to attack however he was too slow, Bodha blocked him. Their weapons were now locked. Kartik only had a moment to register Aman’s smile before, while pressing their weapons together Aman used his leg to sweep Bodha to the floor.

Here Kartik realised just why Aman was succeeding. He had fought Bodha often, probably ever since he was a boy. He knew Bodha’s movements as well as his own. He probably knew that when their weapons were locked Bodha would not focus on his feet when the struggle seemed to be between their weapons. 

Here Bodha nodded to Kartik. As silently as he could Kartik approached Aman from behind and placed a sword at his neck.

It was a nice neck too. Kartik’s second favourite feature after Aman’s eyes, which were covered in a blindfold anyway. He could not help but marvel at the way his own curved sword stood sharp against the clear lines of the other king’s collarbone.

“ _I_ win,” he announced.

Aman stiffened at his words. He lowered his sword to his side, ripped off his blindfold and turned Kartik, incredulous.

“ _You_ were not sparring with me,” he said defiantly.

“He was,” said Bodha, picking himself off the ground. 

“He cheated,” Aman said, his voice rising. “He was not even participating. I did not know he was there.”

“I thought,” started Kartik. “That the whole purpose of fighting with a blindfold was to ensure that you did not need to rely on your eyes for an unknown danger.”

Aman glowered at him, seemingly at a loss for words.

“You still cheated.” he sounded like a child unable to admit a wrong. 

_Stubborn fucking mule._ Kartik cursed in his head. 

“Alright then,” said Kartik. “Why don’t we fight it out again? If you win, I will admit that I cheated.”

Aman’s interest was clearly piqued. “And if you win?”

“A kiss.”

The answer was automatic. His default when it came to making bets, even with Devika. He never had any intention of taking money from anyone else or some other form of extortion. A kiss usually costs the other person nothing, kisses did not have to be remotely romantic or even on the lips. But then he remembered the way Aman had recoiled from him on their wedding night. Perhaps a kiss was not the best idea.

“Or you could-”

“A kiss it is,” said Aman quickly. 

“I shall leave you both then,” said Bodha handing Kartik his shield and sheathing his sword. “The granary needs to be tended to.”

The old man left and both kings were left alone in the spring sun and the warm soft sand of the arena. 

“Are you sure you do not need to rest?” Kartik asked, eyeing the sheen of sweat on Aman’s body. 

“An enemy never rests so by that logic neither should I.”

Kartik placed the shield Bodha gave him in the sand before he undid the laces of his shirt and slid it off his body. It would do no good to have it hang around loosely. In the end, it would only become a hindrance. 

Aman’s eyes were on him, or rather on his body. Kartik thought there was almost an appraising look in eyes.

  
  


Kartik took up the shield and drew his sword. He swung it around a few times before getting into stance.

Most people would think him mad for engaging in a duel with the man who wanted him dead and not even insist on using blunt weapons. But Kartik trusted Aman. He always would even on the day that plunged this very sword into Kartik’s heart. 

Aman too raised his shield and sword. For a while they both circled each other, eyeing each other, seeing who would be desperate enough to break and make the first move. Impatient and seemingly wearied from his previous duel, it was Aman who rushed forth. 

Kartik was never one to back down. Not even those ten years ago when he saw Rajini, the most formidable warrior in all of Mahan rush towards him, not even then when his shoulder had almost blinded him with pain. 

Kartik’s sword met Aman’s. The last time these swords had met was during the ill-fated battle when Kartik had killed Shankar. The force of Kartik’s block pushed Aman aside and Kartik backed off. They resumed their maddening prowl, waiting for who would make the next move.

Aman’s eyes were on him again. By the looks of them, Kartik would not have been surprised if he saw nothing else but Kartik himself and the weapons in his hands. The glitter in those dark eyes were sharp, concentrated, they could have burned through Kartik and left behind nothing but ash. 

For a moment he wondered what it was like, to have a blade in your hand and the man you vowed to kill before you. To have the very moment of your vengeance come to fruition only to be held back, by honour and an oath.

This time Kartik came forward, swinging his sword down towards Aman. He blocked it easily. They fell back again. 

All of this was preliminary, warning attacks. Child’s play. 

When they started again, rushing towards each other almost as mirrors, they started in earnest. Their bodies were drawn into a true dance of swords of shields, with the ringing of metal their only music. 

They were strangely matched. Aman was light on his feet, quick, and flitted about like an eagle with the freedom of the whole sky before him. In contrast, Kartik was far more grounded, solid, firm and broad. Like a lion he had no particular skill, nor was he particularly fast, but there was an undeniable power and strength in his every move. 

They fell into a step, ducking, weaving around each other in precise practiced movements. All the while Aman’s eyes were on him.

Kartik had tried not to look at them. For he would surely falter if he did. But as soon as their bodies drew away from each looking for some reprieve, Kartik was drawn to them. He found himself thoroughly arrested.

Aman saw him falter and lunged. The impact of Aman’s shield sent Kartik’s sword crashing out of his hands. And suddenly he was back there, in Balkar, he was not seeing Aman anymore but Shankar advancing towards him ready to deliver the killing blow.

Kartik made a move to raise his shield before him. To save himself. But he could not. He did not have time. All he could feel was the impact of another body crashing into his. His mind knew not where it was. Only that he was losing and could very well die. He struck out instinctively. Just as he had often done with his father. 

He bit his assailant.

He did not know where he only heard the assailant cry out. He used this moment of distraction to his advantage, using his strength he pushed him aside, toppled his opponent onto his back. Placing a knee on his chest, he picked up a discarded sword and held it towards his neck with all the fury he could muster.

He caught his assailant’s eyes. It was like light breaking through the mist. He was in the training arena not in Balkar. And before him was Aman. Not Shankar. There was a bite mark at his neck, already reddening. And Kartik was not holding his own sword but Aman’s.

Aman must have thrown it down when Kartik had lost his own. An act of chivalry that Kartik had not expected from Aman. But at the same time, it did not surprise him.

Kartik relaxed, got up and held out a hand towards Aman who was still lying on his back. Aman regarded him with a certain admiration. And a certain fear too. It seemed to hold him in place, so much so that he had forgotten the bitemark. He took Kartik’s hand and rose.

“Sorry…” started Kartik handing Aman his sword, as Aman brushed off the sand from his body.

“You used your teeth.” his tone did not betray any emotion as he took his sword. It was a statement. A matter of fact.

“I-”

“If you apologise again I will gut you where you stand.”

Kartik managed a smile “I always used to say that if our swords could be our weapons why not our teeth.”

“Do you use this tactic often?” He seemed amused.

_With my father yes._ But he did not say that. “Not in the training yard. This was a first.”

Aman fixed him again with that searching look. “You won.”

It was another matter of fact. Kartik, trying to forget the vision of Shankar, gave Aman a grin.

“Therefore I did not cheat. Now my prize?”

“I am a man of my word.”

Kartik expected a light peck on the cheek or even the courteous kisses on one's hands. He did not expect Aman to reach out, entangle his fingers through his hair before bringing him down rather abruptly, firmly pressed his lips against Kartik’s. 

At first, Kartik stood for a few moments, he could do nothing but feel the weight of Aman’s lips on his, felt their softness, mixed with the grit of the sand from the arena. But Aman did not stop kissing him. His hands ran down the whole length of Kartik’s neck, finally resting on his shoulders.

So Kartik did what every attentive lover often did in such situations. He kissed him back with the same ferocity he had fought with. A desperate, ruthless kiss, that would leave their lips swollen. His hands found their way to Aman’s hips, feeling the hardened muscle, the smooth skin, the bone.

Aman’s grip on his shoulders became forceful. He moved closer to Kartik pressing their bodies together. It felt...glorious. Every lineament of his being was acutely aware of Aman against him. 

Aman’s lips parted slightly. It was almost as if he had forgotten himself. Forgotten who he was kissing. For the kiss deepened and Kartik was introduced rather intimately to Aman’s tongue. 

It was not that Kartik did not know Aman’s tongue before. He knew it well, he knew it to be sharp and sometimes spiteful. He also knew it worked wonders, but not like this. Not remotely like this.

At that moment he was on fire, a sweet cleansing fire, that burned everything away, the fights, the impending death. All he was aware of was Aman. 

He wondered how he could have possibly survived these last few months with that feather-light kiss they shared under Okhine’s blind gaze. He found he wanted more and more.

He wanted to live in this moment forever. He wanted…

“Am I interrupting?” came the voice of Kaali. 

Kartik and Aman pulled away from each other. Only then did Kartik realise how entangled in each other they had become. The two pulled away from each other, almost reluctantly.

“No,” Aman said coldly as if nothing had just happened.

“Yes,” came Kartik’s almost annoyed response at the same time. 

Kaali looked between them. He seemed almost disappointed. Kartik knew that Kaali had not wanted this marriage, Rajini had told him so. Even so the other man had been civil and had not betrayed his disapproval in the last month. This was the first time Kartik had seen it expressed openly.

“Your presence is required in the hall,” he said. 

“We should go to our rooms first,” said Aman. “To change.”

Kaali shook his head. “This is a matter that requires urgency. I am afraid you must come as you are.”

His eyes fell on the reddened bite mark at Aman’s neck and the bruises on his shoulders. “Perhaps put on your shirts. Your _sparring_ seems to have borne many unseemly marks.”

Aman coloured at those words and Kartik found his attention was more riveted to the search for his shirt in the sands of the arena than to Kaali’s discerning gaze.

  
_______________________________________

Songs:

[Like Real People Do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrleydRwWms) by Hozier

[Naina da Kya Kasoor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Tvork-z5uc) from Andhadhun


	30. The Monster and the Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Devika and Dhyan. Devika for her Sunflower Art for the Phulantari and Dhyan for the fic detailing Aman's thoughts while Kartik slept. I will link them both below (sorry for forgetting them last chapter). Like and comment, shower them with praise, they deserve it.

They say monsters only lurk in tales

Said to children on sleepless nights

These tales are true but for a single lie

Real monsters hardly bear a blight

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

When Kartik and Aman entered Rajini felt a sense of relief that she would never have admitted to their faces. She did not know why but seeing them together, put her at ease. She supposed that was what made them good kings. 

They were like fathers in a way when they put on their kingly visage, their presence commanding, arresting, and somewhat frightening, but at the same time comforting when needed.

Like Kartik and Aman she too had been called forth rather unexpectedly by Kaali, who had volunteered to oversee the scant morning petitioners.

The two sat on their thrones' cheeks flushed unable to look at Kaali or each other. Their hair was dishevelled, they were covered in sweat. They smelled too, that familiar smell that one often got from a few hard hours of training. Their shirts were in a state of haphazard and their lips were swollen. When Aman turned his head, Rajini could see a fresh bite mark at his neck. She caught his eye and raised a brow. He coloured, looked away hastily. Kartik’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead.

As always Gabru was also brought along by the kennel master. Ever since his introduction a month ago, his presence had become a constant in the court, a permanent fixture. Gabru was led towards Kartik who’s fixed expression broke into a grin at the sight of the dog. The excited canine bounded up to him, forgetting the kennel master and placed both his paws on Kartik’s knees before licking him fastidiously. 

Kartik scratched him in return with equal fervour, calling him sweet names in both the Mahanite and Akhtari tongue. Rajini found herself smiling as Aman looked at his husband and the dog. His eyes were filled with a tenderness that she had not seen in a long time.

Soon however Rajini’s eye were riveted towards the upper gallery where Sunaina had arrived with Kusum behind her. She was wearing a dress of lavender, so light it was almost white in some lights. Kusum seemed tired and wary, but when her eyes caught Rajini's, her features seemed to brighten a little.

Once Gabru had calmed down and taken his place at the foot of Kartik’s throne, Aman turned to Kaali “What is this important matter that required such haste?”

He seemed annoyed. His anger usually hardened and determined, it seemed unfocused today. He seemed ready to lash out at anything and anyone. 

Kaali, sensing his mood, as he often did, said nought but gestured to the guards who stood at the entrance of the hall. The doors of the throne room were thrust open, and in strode a tall well-built man with a shock of hair so black it seemed almost blue in the sunlight. 

He was flanked by two more guards, watching his every move.

At the sight of him Gabru rose growled. Kartik murmured for him to be calm but to no avail. The closer the man approached them, the angrier Gabru seemed to get.

The man held himself with a sort of undue importance. It was something Rajini did not like. But her instincts also told her he was a threat. When he was close enough to the thrones Rajini could see that he was grinning. Her hand reached for the hilt of her sword as he looked up at Aman with a sort of familiarity.

“You have grown up little king,” he remarked. “Forgive me, I must congratulate you on your marriage.” he nodded towards Kartik then with a small secret smile, he took in their dishevelled features. “Forgive me. It seems I have interrupted your lovemaking.”

There was a barely audible ripple through the room. His tone spoke of familiarity, for no one outside the family would dare comment on the love life of two kings to their face. 

Aman’s face took on its characteristic hardness, a sternness that was almost immaculate. 

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What right do you have to speak to us as such?”

The man gave a low mocking bow. “You do not recognise me. I am not surprised. It has been ten years since you last saw me and five years since I have been seen alive by the general public,” he turned to Kusum. “Five years since I last saw you too, my love.”

She seemed stricken by the very sight of him and it was then Rajini knew. Knew who he was. And she hated him. She hated him with more fervour than the hatred that had killed Parmesh in the Battle of the Broken Will.

“Mandhav?” Kusum whispered. 

And it confirmed all their suspicions, the man, Mandhav bowed low once again. “Precisely.”

“How do we know it is you?” Rajini found herself asking not without a certain sharpness. “You are supposed to be dead.”

“Presume dead.” corrected Mandhav. “There is a difference you see and besides” he turned once again to Aman. “Do you not remember, when we were boys, you were nine or so, you fell into the banks of the Godsblade and almost drowned. I had to carry you out and breathe life back into you.”

Aman’s eyes widened. No one had known of that. No one except herself, Kaali, Keshav, Aman and Mandhav himself. They had agreed to it that day, Shankar would have punished them all if he had found out. They had sworn this secret would remain between them. 

Rajini knew her family and she knew Kaali, they would never betray each other like that. This Mandhav could not be an imposter.

“Do you doubt me still?” Mandhav asked.

“What do you want?” Kartik asked. “The dead sons of dead lords do not revive themselves to merely congratulate their kings on their wedding.”

“You seem to be a man of the world Kartik Singh.”

He said Kartik’s name as if it was a bitter curd. It did not surprise Rajini. The Dasmesh family had been the staunchest haters of the Akhtari nobles. It had been what had driven them to betray Aman in the first place.

“You forget yourself Mandhav. He is not only a king but  _ your _ king,” Aman glowered down at him. “You will address him as such and he speaks truly. What do you want?”

“I have spent years with the Southern Islanders. I learned their ways. But seeing the wonders of the sea only made me miss home all more. I want to take back what is mine.” said Mandhav. “I want my land, my titles, my income, my keep.” he turned to Kusum. “And I want my woman.”

Kusum turned pale, she stiffened and shrunk back. Instinctively Rajini drew her sword. She wanted to kill this Mandhav. Kill him here and now. She made a move towards him. Mandhav eye’s widened and he stepped back in fear. 

She would have gone forth and she would have killed him. But Keshav held her back and Aman gestured for her to lower her sword. Though he seemed as angry as she was she knew a certain wisdom would not allow him to spill blood in these halls. 

But Gabru who had been growling all the while, knew no masters or kings. He took this moment of distraction to leap away from the foot fo Kartik’s throne, launching an attack on Mandhav. Mandhav landed on his back with the shaggy dog on top of him, growling and gnashing at his face.

“Gabru.” Kartik’s voice cut through the growls. Gabru stopped growling and looked back at Kartik. He turned back to Mandhav. Satisfying himself with a final bark he got off Mandhav’s chest and went back to his place by Kartik’s throne eyeing Mandhav.

Mandhav rose and was about to speak when Kartik interrupted him. “Speak again and next time I will let him maul you to death. Kusum is not your woman. She belongs to no one but herself. You dare come to Chandan, in these very halls and utter those foul words. You have no title or claim. You have not shown anyone their due respect, what makes you think we will grant you anything?”

Mandhav seemed at a loss for words.

“Give Mandhav rooms in the palace,” continued Kartik. “Have guards posted around his rooms. Let no one in or out.”

“You treat me as a prisoner.” stated Mandhav.

“We will discuss your petition in a few days.” said Aman with resolute coldness. 

~~~

The court was adjourned and Aman remained on his throne. For years the throne had been his only source of comfort after a particularly trying day. Here he felt the closest to his father here. 

He remembered being a child sitting at the foot of this very throne and simply watching his father as he ministered the king’s justice. Once a meeting had adjourned, the two of them would remain behind and Shankar would pick him in his arms and place him on top of the throne. Beaming he would take his own turban and kalgi off and place it on Aman’s head. 

Sometimes if Aman closed his eyes he could almost feel the weight of it again, could almost hear his father’s voice.

Almost. 

It was all phantom. The memories of his childhood. Ghosts and dried up shrivelled dead things. His mind turned to another memory. He thought back to the day when Mandhav had saved him.

He remembered thinking the water had thrust itself into every orifice of his body. He remembered the desperate urge to simply breathe. He remembered thinking he had died. Then he remembered the way he had seen the bright blue sky above him and the then thirteen-year-old Mandhav looking down on him, his features wrought in concern and terror.

“What are you thinking?” came a voice beside him.

Aman turned to see Kartik was still sitting beside him on his throne. Gabru was resting his head on Kartik’s lap half dozing. Kartik’s sternness had sloughed away to reveal an earnestness that was strangely vulnerable. 

It was the first time Aman had looked at him properly since the kiss. Their bodies still bore the marks of the treacherous moment of forgetfulness, the bite mark was just beginning to fade. 

All reason had left him then. His desires had gotten the better of him. He knew that he did not have to kiss him like that, kiss him so earnestly, so passionately, kiss him like he was a lover like he would die without him. He knew he could have gotten away with much less. But the facts simply were, he desired Kartik. He  _ wanted _ to kiss him, to hold him close. He could admit that much to himself at least. 

Kartik would be gone in a few months, dead by Aman’s own hands. The gods knew when he would have the opportunity to kiss him again. So he took this for what it was. He fulfilled his own selfish desires.

“I am thinking about Mandhav.” Aman admitted.  _ Why is it so easy to talk to you? To kiss you? Why is it so easy to forget myself around you? To forget father and this vengeance?  _ “There is something I do not understand.”   
  


“What is it?”

  
  
“Why was he so...ignorant, boorish? He used to be so kind.”

“I supposed five years living in exile in a country not your own does that to someone. Even the freshest milk can be curdled by bitterness.” Kartik paused and his eyes met Aman’s once more. “People change.”

_ People change.  _ There was a certain weight behind Kartik’s words. A weight Aman was not yet ready to accept. He considered them in silence.

“Do you think he was lying?” Kartik asked after a while. “The memory anyone could have told him.”

“No, the only people who were there were Mandhav, Rajini, Keshav, Kaali and I.” said Aman. “They could not have done it, they have no reason to.”

“They are loyal to you.” agreed Kartik. “But why should he turn up now?”

Aman pondered over this. “Do you think he could have been the one to incite the attack. He said he spent his years in the Southern Isles. It would explain the presence of the sea-steel dagger in Kashatr. Perhaps he wanted the countries to go to war. Perhaps he grew restless and uneasy after our marriage and decided on a more desperate ploy to unhinge both courts?”

“Where were his loyalties before the killing of Acharya? Forgive me my knowledge on Mahanite nobility is rather poor.”

Aman found himself smiling “You are lucky you married a Mahanite.”

Kartik smiled back at him “You have mellowed since the morning.”

Then Kartik frowned at himself as if he had said something wrong. Aman knew Kartik enough to know that this was one of those moments where he would state exactly what was one his mind. 

“You have mellowed too. Perhaps we should do it more often?” suggested Aman. 

Kartik’s smile turned mischievous “What? Kissing?”

“ _ Sparring _ .” Aman enunciated the word.

Their smiles grew until it turned to laughter. That was good. That was something. Acknowledging it instead of secreting it away and letting it fester in that weighted unspoken territory between them, which was growing heavier by the day. It felt good to acknowledge it even if it was to laugh about it.

“So Mandhav? His loyalties?” Kartik asked again.

So Aman explained how Mandhav’s father the Lord Dasmesh had rebelled against the throne when Aman was sixteen. Lord Dasmesh had thought Aman too complacent towards the Akhtari, not knowing of his inner vengeance. He had rebelled because he thought if he overthrew Aman, he himself would make a better king. His first open act of revolt had been the taking of Lord Acharya’s fort. 

“I was not allowed to fight then,” said Aman. He felt the familiar feeling of incompetence before Kartik. Kartik, the boy king. Kartik who had fought a battle at fourteen. Kartik who was a hero. “So Kaali took back the fort in my name. Dasmesh had been executed as a traitor. I had killed him myself.”

He had been the first man he had killed in his life. He would not be the last.

“Why risk involving Akhtar?” asked Kartik.

“The Dasmesh family have always hated the Akhtari,” Aman explained. “They say Aayush’s father was of the Dasmesh family, though his mother, the Queen, was a Tripathi. After his death they had sworn to have all the Singhs killed for Aayush’s death.”

“I knew not that Aayush’s father was a Dasmesh,” Kartik replied “I suppose it would make sense. In one move Mandhav honours the ancient oath and takes vengeance for the death of his father.”

“Do you really think he wants vengeance for what happened to his father?” asked Aman. 

Kartik looked at him, his gaze mournful “He would not be the first son to do so would he?”

~~~

After spending the rest of the day with Sunaina, Kusum found herself racing down the corridors to stables. Rakesh would want to look for her, he would ask for her, he would want to talk to her now that he was here, disguised as Mandhav. But she did not want that. She did not want to be anywhere near him.

She did not know where she was going. Only that she did not want to be in the palace or anywhere near the city. She ran as fast her feet could take her.

Her mother had told her a story once. About a demon-woman with twisted feet who could run as fast as the wind through the treetop, wreaking havoc. She felt like that woman now.

Eventually, she found herself in the stables. The familiar smell of hay and horse dung, sharp against her nose. Despite herself, she found the smell welcome. She was unsure of what to do until she saw that Rajini too was in the stables.

The other woman was talking to one of the stablehands rather loudly and sharply as was her habit. 

“What do you mean that Sapir will not be ready by the morrow? He just needs to be shoed. You know my cousin, the king, loves that horse more than his husband.”

Sapir was the white stallion that Kartik had unintentionally gifted to Aman, all those months ago, when they had sent each other those declarations of war. Over the months it had become Aman’s favourite mount, just as the chestnut mare Yaara had become Kartik’s favourite. 

“Sorry,” said the stablehand. “Because of the festivities last night, the blacksmiths have taken the day off.”

“I’m sure Aman would not care,” Kusum found herself saying. “I think he would be too occupied for today at least.”

Rajini turned to Kusum, her scowl softened to something sweeter, almost like concern. The stablehand, evidently forgotten, shot Kusum a grateful look.

“Kusum?” questioned Rajini.

“Are you free this evening?” Kusum found herself asking. Anything to get away from Rakesh and his prying eyes. Anything to get away from this suffocating palace.

“I was going to inspect the barracks, but that was only because I have nothing better to do. Why do you ask?”

“Will you ride out with me?” she could not hide the desperation in her voice.

Rajini looked at her perplexed. “I never thought you would be one for riding. You are always sitting by Aunt Sunaina in her carriage.”

“You would be surprised,” said Kusum, remembering all the times Rakesh and her had stolen horses to escape.

Rajini turned to the stablehand. “Which horses  _ have _ been shoed?”

Soon the two of them, having saddled their horses, rode outside the city, towards the Eastern Meadows. 

For the first few minutes of their ride, Kusum was silent, savouring the balmy evening sun, feeling the wind in her hair. One by one her worries seemed to vanish. In the distance she saw a field of brightly coloured sunflowers. She found herself grinning as a wicked idea entered her head.

“The first to reach the sunflowers,” she announced. “Will win.”

“Win what?”   
  


“The glory of winning.”

Kusum urged her horse forward without hearing her response. She heard the answering hoofbeats of Rajini’s horse behind her and let out a laugh knowing that she had successfully engaged the most formidable warrior in Mahan into a childish race.

They raced through the countryside. Kusum maintained a steady lead, with Rajini close behind her. With the excitement of competition, the warm wind, the feel of her horse beneath and the woman she loved behind her, Kusum never felt more alive. 

Her feelings of utter triumph were crowned with the victory of reaching the sunflower fields before Rajini did. Kusum reigned her horse in, turned around and gave Rajini a large gloating grin.

“I do not believe it,” she found herself remarking. “I have beaten the greatest warrior of Mahan in a race.”

“Only cowards know how to flee well.” huffed Rajini with the bitterness of having lost a race.

Kusum smiled at her sweetly “Are you calling me a coward Rajini Tripathi.” She leapt off her horse and went to Rajini, taking out a dagger from her waist, she raised it brushed against Rajini’s chin. “Dismount and fight me. We’ll see who the real coward is.”

Rajini grinned down at her. Wisps of hair escaping from her braid, framing her face. She looked downright beautiful. She…No, this was treacherous thinking. What of Rakesh and their plan?

The sudden bitter thought of Rakesh must have shown on her face for Rajini’s smile fell. She got off her horse and placed her hands on Kusum’s shoulders.

“Is everything alright Kusum?” she asked, then she frowned. “Forgive me for asking, it’s not alright. With Mandhav returning the gods know-”

“I wish he were gone,” said Kusum. “I wish he was not here.”

“You loved him once.” ventured Rajini.

“Once,” Kusum answered. “Not anymore.”

It was true. She  _ had _ loved Rakesh once. The Rakesh of her younger years. The Rakesh who had picked her up, half-starved on the side of the Bastard’s Road. The Rakesh who had nursed her back to health. The Rakesh who had held her on warm nights. She did not love this Rakesh. The Rakesh that was so consumed by greed, he no longer saw her. 

“He has changed,” remarked Rajni. “And he is no Aman. I know you loved him well.”

Kusum took in a deep breath. “I loved him not. Not as you may think. Sunaina may have wanted me to marry him. But my heart does not belong to him. It never did.”

Rajini regarded her with something akin to realisation in her eyes. She turned away from Kusum and looked at the sunflowers. Under the evening sun they took on an almost golden glow. Brilliant, glowing beautiful. It was almost as if they had stepped into an enchanted fairy kingdom. She did not miss the wistful expression on Rajini’s face.

“What is it?” Kusum asked.

“When Keshav and Aman were boys, I think, around seven and nine. They would beg me to take them here, almost everyday. I never knew what charm they found in the sunflowers, but they would always come back with one each for their mothers and two for me.” she turned to Kusum. “I think I see it now, it was never the flowers themselves, it was always a way of telling someone they loved them.”

“With this sudden realisation” quipped Kusum. “Will you now be presenting a sunflower to a loved one.”

Rajini turned to her. Her one good eye looked like molten gold in the evening sun. She took a deep breath before she went to one of the sunflowers. Drawing her sword, in one stroke, she hacked a sunflower clean and turned to Kusum. There was a certain determination in her eyes.

She proffered the flower towards her. Kusum was not sure what to make of it.

“There is a story,” said Rajini. “About a cruel old king who wanted to marry a princess. He was far too lazy to go on a quest to find her. So he sent a monster in his stead. The monster fell in love with her during their journey. When the time came for the princess to marry, he presented her with a sunflower to tell her he loved her. He thought it hopeless, but he did not want to let his one chance at happiness go by. To his great surprise, he found she loved him too.”

“Rajini…” how could she tell her that she did not deserve any of this. Her love, her trust, her heart. How could she accept the sunflower?

“I think it's hopeless for me too. But I will take the chance as he did. I do not want it to go by,” she paused. “I know that this is unexpected and that I’m not worthy-”

Kusum did not deign to hear the rest. She took the sunflower from Rajini’s hands before leaning forward, she pressed her lips lightly against Rajini’s. The kiss lingered, light and sweet. 

It was like nectar, like honey but it felt a little like dying too.

Kusum knew what she was doing was beyond reason, madness, insanity even, with the plan and Rakesh so near. But she did not care. She could not. 

She pulled away and Rajini looked at her surprised. Kusum clutched the sunflower tightly in her hands.

“You are wrong,” she whispered. “It is I who am not worthy.”

With that, she kissed her again.

_____________________

Song: [Roses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RhAP0fG2y0) by Shawn Mendes for Sunflower scene.

  
[Devika's Art](https://www.instagram.com/p/CBc1uf7Fk2L/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)

[Dhyan's fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24789718)


	31. By the Rill of Dragonflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mehan for letting me be inspired by their Keshav's Playlist from Raakh for the little Aman Keshav moment. Thank you also to Shreya for the song suggestion Saibo for this chapter. It fits for the whole story but I was listening to this on repreat for this chapter. The link will be given.
> 
> ALSO BECAUSE IM A DUMB BITCH WHO FORGOT TO PUT THIS IN LAST NIGHT  
> thabk you Dhyan for actually galaxy braining the music composition poem idea with me all those weeks ago on Twitter DMs. (I miss you high key lad)
> 
> Also, yes an actual Ch 30 is up. I understand there is some confusion. I deleted NOT A CHAPTER and replaced it with Ch 30 The Monster and the Princess. So if you have not read Ch 30 please do. Interesting developments do happen there.

We have wreathed a snake with flowers

Its venom rises and blackens the petal

But know this when the time comes

The antidote is made of the same mettle

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Mandhav was not discussed for a whole week. Kartik often suspected Aman of postponing the discussions until absolutely necessary. He could not blame him. No one wanted to talk about him. So they went on, pretending he did not occupy rooms in this very palace, the went on pretending he did not exist. 

When they finally did bring up the resurrected lord it was with a certain reluctance.

Like any good council meeting, they argued about what to do with him. But one thing was clear. They may have found the man who was working against both nations. A man who hated Akhtar and the Mahanite royal family. It made more than perfect sense. 

“I do not know what he is planning,” said Devika during a tense silence. “But I do not like it. The fact that he’s so brazen about his presence scares me more than anything.”

“If he really is behind this, would it not be best to hold him here in Chandan?” asked Parvaaz.

“No,” said Kaali. “If people realise that we hold him, prisoner, without concrete evidence they may not forgive us. We need to play this smart, corner him in such a way so that if we do bring him to justice it would not be without cause.”

Kartik found himself nodding “I agree with Kaali on this front. We need evidence before we exact punishment. I will not allow history to call us unjust.”

“Is there a way in which we could try to find out his motives?” asked Rajini.

“I have an idea though I do not particularly like it...” Keshav trailed off before finding himself again. “We could ask Kusum to talk to him. They were sweethearts, promised to each other once. Perhaps he would be more open with her.”

If it was not Keshav, if the stakes were not so high, Kartik would have told the other man to go fuck himself. Three times Mandhav had asked to see Kusum and three times Kartik had refused him on her behalf. 

He saw Rajini stiffen too. He had not missed how the two of them had returned from their ride a week ago, smiling, red-cheeked, with red marks at Kusum’s neck. “What happened there?” he remembered asking Kusum. “We were stung by bees,” Kusum had answered, barely able to contain her delight. “It was marvelous.”

“Only if Kusum agrees to it,” said Aman. “I would not force her hand on this.”

Aman turned to Rajini with an almost imploring look. Who better than Rajini to speak to Kusum about this. 

“I will talk to her,” said Rajini sighing. “Though it feels like sending a sparrow into the jaws of a tiger.”

“We will plan accordingly from Kusum’s response,” said Kaali. “Meanwhile we must discuss the procession to Akhtar. We will be leaving in less than a month and-”

“You do it Kaali,” said Aman. “I have my first physician’s lesson today with Qabid. I do not want to miss it.”

Kaali frowned “But-”

“You can’t expect me to be present in every matter of state. That’s what petty lords are for. Besides I have full faith that you will handle it in my stead for this afternoon at least.”

“And what of your Kartik? We will need an expert on Akhtari customs-”

“Qabid asked me to be a patient,” Kartik declared. “Devika and Parvaaz should be able to handle all in my stead.”

In truth, Qabid had asked no such thing, well at least not in seriousness. Kartik had volunteered himself. When it came to choosing between sitting through mind-numbing council meetings and listening to Qabid preach about the virtues of medicinal woad, the latter prevailed by a small margin. Besides Aman was going to be there. 

“Aman will miss out on learning about the customs-” started Kaali.

“I can teach him well enough,” interjected Kartik. 

“I’m sure you will,” said Rajini with a sly smile. 

  
  


Almost every interaction between them had been filled with sly insinuations in the past week. Kartik knew them to be untrue on his side, he enjoyed the taunting nonetheless. There was another part of him that ached for the taunts to have some semblance of truth to them.

“In my absence do ensure you actually _talk_ to Kusum,” Kartik replied with unabashed innocence. “Try not to get distracted by other...conversations.”

He did not give Rajini the time to respond, he and Aman rose from the council table and made their way to their rooms where they would meet Qabid. The silence between them was now a comfortable one. Somewhere in the past month the tension, the anger, the hatred that had simmered between them, primarily from Aman’s side, had shed somewhat away to reveal something that felt almost like a friendship. He turned to see that Aman’s brow was furrowed and he was tapping his finger rapidly against his thigh.

“Are you nervous?” asked Kartik. “It’s only Qabid.”

“I know,” Aman said gruffly then he’s features softened, his expression was apologetic. “Sorry, it’s just that...I have forgotten much.”

“He may think me incompetent in many things but he sees me as a father sees an unruly son. He thinks very highly of you.” Kartik assured. 

“That is what scares me,” admitted Aman.

Kartik put an arm around Aman. This time Aman did not flinch like he had on their wedding night but relaxed and leaned onto Kartik. 

“You work wonders on my shoulder,” he said quietly. “You’re the only I trust with it, after Qabid. That has to count for something does it not?”

A slow smile crept up on Aman’s face and Kartik felt as if he had succeeded in something momentous. They may never write songs about this moment. But he felt more a hero here than he ever did during the Battle of the Broken Will. 

When they reached their rooms Qabid was already inside. He was sitting on one of the chairs slowly ruminating over some book or another.

“Are we late?” asked Kartik.  
  


“No, I am early,” Qabid answered closing the book. “I see you have not injured yourself. How disappointing. I was hoping our first lesson would prove to be more interesting.”

“Incredible,” remarked Kartik. “You are disappointed when I injure myself and disappointed when I do not. There is no pleasing you sometimes.”

Qabid ignored him and turned to Aman. “Has he been taking his draught?”

“Yes,” said Aman.

Aman had been more than fastidious about it, ensuring Kartik would apply his salves and take his draughts when required. He had a certain steady discipline that Kartik both lacked and admired. 

For the three nights when Kartik had no sleeping draught to stave of the nightmares, Aman held his hand steadfast without fail and without complaint. By the time Qabid had prepared it had become a force of habit, a tradition, a ritual. Kartik had not bothered to protest. On nights when even the sleeping draught did not work he was grateful for Aman’s hand in his.

Sometimes it scared him knowing how Aman cared. It scared him because if this was how much he cared for an enemy he did not want to know how much he had once cared for his father. It scared him, because here was another person who would feel a loss at his death, even if he was his killer.

“Kartik tells me you managed the salves and his shoulders very well. Not every novice picks up the right way to massage broken muscles into place. You have talent.”

“I am afraid I must disappoint you there,” said Aman. “It is not talent, but practice. You see, my father had similar wounds. I used to tend to them before he-”

He stopped sharply and looked quickly up at Kartik and the light that had been in his eyes seemed to dim. He looked away and spoke no more. 

Qabid cleared his throat and interrupted the tense silence. “Take a seat. We should start.”

Both men sat. Since Qabid and Aman now occupied the two chairs that usually were in their room. Kartik took a seat on their bed, taking off his shoes. He sat cross-legged, ready to watch and assist where needed. He was never particularly interested in the medicinal arts. But Qabid and Aman, the two most important people in his life, were passionate about it. He was determined to try and see what made it so fascinating.

“How much do you know?” asked Qabid, turning his full attention to Aman. 

“I studied for two years after,” said Aman. “Then our physician Remi died and I have never gone back.”

“When did he die?”

“Eight years ago,” said Aman. “I fear I have forgotten much.”

That meant he had started studying after his father’s death. Kartik could almost see an eleven-year-old Aman applying himself to his studies to keep the grief at bay. The now-familiar wave of self-hatred washed over him.

“Would you like to start from the beginning then?” asked Qabid. “That way we can fill in potential gaps.”

Aman nodded, seeming visibly relaxed and Kartik found himself, once again, in awe of how Qabid was able to put the people in the room at ease. He knew it to be the mark of a great physician.

“To understand a physician’s art one must, as you quite well know, first understand the human body,” Qabid opened the book to a page depicting the drawn figure of a skeleton. “Tell me the purpose of our bones.”

“To support our bodies,” said Aman then he frowned. “There’s something else, is there not?”

Qabid pointed to the skull and the ribs. “These bones house our vital organs. They protect them. Our brain, our stomach, our heart, our lungs…”

At this point, Kartik was no longer listening. Not properly. He let the talk of bones, blood, and organs rage in the background. The two were now wholly absorbed in each other and the skeleton before them. Kartik now had ample opportunity to observe Aman unabashedly. He took such small liberties as often he could. He did not have much time left.

He watched as his eyes filled with a glow that was so unlike the rage and sternness that Kartik had grown accustomed to that even if he was not so utterly in love with him he was sure he would not have been able to look away. His features had taken on that rare softness that Kartik did not see often, they had taken on an earnestness too. 

“Kartik?” Qabid broke him out of his reverie.

“Yes?”

“Hold out your hand.”

Kartik gave him a puzzled look but did as he was bid. He held out his hand. 

“Get up, use your common sense, we cannot see your hand from here.”

Kartik got up from the bed and went towards them holding out his right hand. Qabid took it and showed Aman. 

“You are lucky Kartik has taken to athletic interests,” said Qabid. “Else we would not be able to see it or feel it clearly.”

“Feel what clearly?” asked Kartik, not without some trepidation. He was half afraid they might start dissecting his hand. 

“The veins,” explained Aman, he reached out and traced the veins and question. The touch was impersonal, clinical but Kartik felt his own hands tremble. 

“Are you going to cut them open?” Kartik asked in half jest, half morbid fascination with a hint of fear.

Both Qabid and Aman ignored his question and started to talk about the Circulatory Theory, which only recently (recent in scholar’s terms being the last one hundred years) had been ratified when the Akhtari Queen of that time had allowed physicians to perform dissections on dead bodies. From what Kartik could tell it was the theory that told of how a series of veins and arteries transported blood throughout the body.

“Our own scholars only discovered it recently,” remarked Aman, his fingers still on Kartik’s hand. “To think the theory was ridiculed for centuries.”

“If they had enough sense they would know they did not need dissection to know the theory to be true,” said Qabid.

“How so?”

“Kartik,” said Qabid. “Close your fist tightly and open it again. Aman when he opens it watch his palms carefully.”

Kartik closed his fist and opened it. He watched his palms too. There were blotches of white which were replaced by their usual red in a matter of seconds. 

“What did you see?” asked Qabid. 

“Was that the blood, coming back to where it had been displaced?” asked Aman.

“You are correct, you see there is much we can learn from observation alone.”

Kartik numbed his mind to their conversation once again. He found himself looking at the way Aman seemed wholly captivated by Qabid talking, by the material before him. Kartik had never found medicine fascinating in his life, he still did not. But Aman loved it. 

_He loves this like I love my reading and writing._ Kartik realised. And somehow that made Aman even more beautiful. 

In the end, Qabid smiled genially at Aman. “I shall leave you notes on the Circulatory System. Study them when you have time. I believe the Queen Mother is holding dinner in her rooms. Politely let her know I have declined for tonight.”

“Why so?” asked Kartik. He wanted Qabid to be there. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with the man he considered his father before he died. “We would love to have you.”

“I have patients that need tending to.’

~~~

Sunaina’s meddling with Chaman and Champa’s affairs were so obvious that Chaman was sure a blind man could see it. She had arranged for them to take a seat beside each other on soft cushions splayed across the matted floor in a circle. 

Though the custom of using tables had become fashionable and was used extensively on bigger occasions, Sunaina preferred to keep to the old ways when it came to private family meals. They did not even have servants to serve the food. Everyone served themselves. It felt more intimate. 

Chaman found his eyes drifting towards his estranged wife in the lengthy pauses between their sparse, clipped, polite conversation. 

She was still beautiful. Of course, he had never doubted it to be so. He had gotten so used to the idea that they would never see each other again after their fall out that seeing her felt surreal. 

He turned to the people who were present in order to distract himself. Most of them were here. Devika, Parvaaz, and his son Keshav were talking to each other laughing loudly at something Devika had said. Kaali was sitting beside Sunaina talking in low serious whispers.

Rajini and Kusum sat close together, talking in low whispers. Something had changed between them a week ago that much was clear to Chaman. He had not been able to ask Rajini about it properly, but she seemed happy and that was all that mattered to him. And he knew Kusum well enough now to know she would never hurt his daughter. 

The only people missing were Kartik, Aman, and Qabid. Chaman gathered they may still be at their lessons. 

“When do you think we should ask Aman and Kartik about the Laal Panj Ceremony?” Sunaina asked no one in particular as was her habit.

“Has Kartik not completed it?” asked Chaman. He had been under the impression that the Laal Panj ceremony had been completed on the day they first arrived in Chandan.

“They were newlywed when we first arrived,” explained Sunaina. “And you know as well as I that it takes place in the tombs. Shankar is buried there. They were...intimate I know. But lust is not love. The bonds of love then were tenuous at best. Now, however....” Sunaina gave a small smile. “I wanted to give them room to know each other as men rather than kings before they entered the tomb.”

Chaman found himself marvelling at his sister-in-law’s wisdom. The Laal Panj ceremony was completed by every consort of Mahan as soon as they were wed to the monarch. They would dip their hands in red dye, enter the tomb of the past kings and their consorts before placing their hands along the wall, leaving a red impression next to the other consorts of Mahan. 

The ceremony typically happened straight after a monarch married their consort. But then again Kartik and Aman’s marriage was not typical. He was glad for Sunaina’s foresight. He told her as much.

Sunaina merely rolled her eyes and looked across the room where Kusum was trying to feed Rajini some of the rice “It looks like we may have another wedding on our hands if the gods are good.”

“Bhabhi,” said Chaman. “You have become quite the matchmaker.”

“I’m not the one making the matches,” said Sunaina with a laugh. “The children seem to be doing it themselves these days.”

“It is not like we were any different,” said Champa quietly.

Chaman could not help but grin at the memory. The two of them had eloped two months after they had met at the Phulantari festival all those years ago. It had caused quite a scandal. But when Deenanath, his father, had found out he merely laughed and embraced Champa, welcoming her into the Tripathi family like a long lost daughter.

The door to Sunaina’s rooms opened. The two kings arrived, with Aman laughing at something Kartik had told him. Chaman found himself comparing _this_ Aman to the Aman he had seen at their estate, those months before the wedding. How so unlike the sullen cold young man he seemed now. In fact, it reminded Chaman of the carefree little boy he had been before Shankar’s death.

The two took their seats on the two cushions between Devika and Rajini greeting all the others giving their apologies. 

“Is Qabid not coming?” asked Sunaina. 

Kartik shrugged and seemed a little saddened as he said “He is busy. He had patients.”

Sunaina seemed a little disheartened at hearing that. Chaman too felt it. He liked the old man, his stories, and his presence. It was calming. A balm. He was not a physician without reason.

“He has taken up well with the other physicians,” said Chaman. “Though it would have been wonderful had he been here. I had been meaning to ask him about the new theory they talk about in the universities.”

“And what theory is that uncle?” asked Aman, delicately placing the food on his plate. 

Aman had never been one to eat much during meals. Some things never change. In contrast, Kartik was piling food on his plate as if he would never see another meal again in his life.

“The one about nerves,” Chaman said. “How the brain causes signals to move through the body.”

“I am sure Qabid would have been able to provide wonderful insights,” said Kartik shoveling the food in his mouth. 

“And you would still barely be listening,” said Devika.

“Medicine is very fascinating,” protested Kartik through half-chewed bread. 

“I’m sure it is,” said Devika drinking from her goblet of wine. 

“How was your first lesson with Qabid?” Sunaina addressed Aman.

“It was very good,” he replied. “Dare I say it Qabid is better than old Remi was, rest his soul.”

Sunaina’s lips curled into a pleased smile. The conversation turned Aman discussing his lessons, Kartik making sly jabs at Rajini and Kusum, with Rajini doing the same in turn. It then turned to discussions on their travel to Akhtar where Kartik, Devika, and Parvaaz kept an air of mystery. 

By the time they finished their meal, everyone seemed well sated.

“I am in the mood for music,” Kartik turned to Chaman, “Aman, Keshav and Rajini all tell me you are a good singer. Will you play for us?”

“Has Aman also told you he himself is very good with the sitar,” said Chaman. “I will sing if he consents to play.”

“Uncle...” started Aman.

“Surely your tutors have drilled it into you,” said Chaman.

“I find my husband more talented by the day,” said Kartik with a smile turning to Aman. “I knew you had a skill for medicinal arts, but you never told me about the sitar.”

“I do not play it often of late,” Aman admitted quietly. 

“I for one would like to hear you play,” Kartik gave Aman a broad smile. 

Aman looked at Kartik incredulously. But the incredulity eventually melted into consent. The sitar was brought.

Chaman and Aman took their places in the middle of the circle, Aman tested out some of the strings before frowning. He had always been very particular about how his sitar would sound. Even as a nine-year-old.

Chaman turned to everyone else as Aman was tuning the sitar. “Are there any particular requests?”

He had expected Rajini to request a war song or Keshav for the Ballad of the Scholars. But it was Champa who answered.

“By the Rill of Dragonflies,” said Champa, with a small smile. “It was always your best.”

At first, Chaman was too shocked by her response to answer. _She still remembers._ His heart started to beat faster. He was taken back to the day they had eloped. Lying in a dusty inn she had asked him to sing. It had been the first song that had come to mind then. 

Slowly breaking out his reverie he gave Champa a nod and turned to his nephew.

“Do you know it?”

  
  
Aman, having finished with tuning the sitar, grimaced. Rajini let out an amused snort “I do not think he will ever forget it. He could not get the notes right so Mistress Nisha made him practice it every day for three months. He could play in his sleep I think.”

There was a low chuckle that soon gave way to silence. Aman started the first few notes. Chaman closed his eyes and let the music of the sitar fill him. The song ran in his veins instead of blood. It was a section from a longer epic known as Kaveira of the Trees. The Bandit Queen. She had opposed the rule of Erhan and Dilaram, raiding treasuries, raising rebellion. Eventually she was caught and hanged by the Rill of Dragonflies, hence the name of the song. 

He had sung it more times than he could remember. The words came to him as if they had been one the tip of his tongue his whole life. His eyes were on Champa’s and he knew then that memory of their wedding night passed between them.

_“I loved all,” said the bandit queen_

_The noose tight at her throat_

_“All their eyes glittered like the thousand wings,_

_Of the mighty dragonflies afloat_

_I will return to them a thousand times_

_No grave can hold down a soul alight”_

When the last verse was completed and Aman let out the last notes of the sitar, there was silence. There was always silence when this particular song was sung. There was something haunting about a dead bandit queen still living in the memory of the people. It was Kusum, always one for courtesy, who started clapping. The others eventually joined in congratulating the two of them. Keshav was explaining the story to the three Akhtari. 

“Aman,” started Keshav once he was done. “What of the composition you were working on?”  
  


“Composition?” questioned Kartik, he turned to Aman with awe. “You can _make_ music too?”

He looked at Aman as if he was the most fascinating thing in the world. Aman did not meet his gaze but merely looked at the strings of the sitar. 

“It is unfinished,” he said. “Can _you_ not make music? Did you not have music tutors?”

It was tradition for all Princes of Mahan to be subjected to the exposure of all arts and delve into their own interests when they were older. Perhaps it was not the same in Akhtar.

“I can sing,” said Kartik. “Even then my voice is not properly trained. I was far too interested in reading histories or stories or playing at war with my friends.” 

“His tutors had to bribe him with promises of old historical ballads.” supplied Parvaaz. 

“If I am not wrong it was you who thought of that idea,” said Devika.

Parvaaz’s smile was nostalgic. Aman turned his attention to Kartik. “You should sing for us then.”

“Only if you play a compostion.”

Aman seemed reluctant. But Keshav spoke.

“Your compositions are very soothing. Please, I have not heard you play in a long time.”

Chaman had heard about it in his letters. Aman would often let Keshav sit by him as he worked on his compositions. Especially after Keshav’s lover and wife-to-be, Jaimini, had died two years ago. More than anything Chaman had been looking forward to the wedding. More than anything he had wished he was there for his son when she had died. 

Aman looked up at Keshav almost apologetically. He took up his sitar and started playing. The song was slow, sonorous, yet there was an undeniable power to it. His hands worked with the intricate notes on the strings. 

Chaman remembered the boy who used to fumble with his sitar. The boy who loved the more energetic songs. It saddened him to know that his composition could hold so much grief.

When he was finished Aman looked first at Keshav who seemed visibly relaxed, satisfied his eyes wandered to Kartik. 

“Your turn to sing.”

Kartik shrugged and took his place beside Aman who was about to get up.

“I will need your sitar.”

Aman ventured to hand it to him. But Kartik stopped him. “I cannot play it. I want you to play it.”

“I know no Akhtari songs,” protested Aman. “I do not think that you know any Mahanite.”

Kartik smiled “The song is Balkari.”

“Two Kings?” asked Kusum referencing the song that had been played at their wedding and perhaps long before that. “Is that the song?”

Kartik shook his head and turned to Aman “Play your composition again.”

Suddenly it dawned on Chaman. He was going to add words to Aman’s music. Aman started and Kartik tried to sing. The first time his voice caught in his throat. The second time he was not able to harmonise with the pitch of the sitar. The third time was a little more successful but he was out of beat.

After a few more false starts the song started in earnest:

_And so Taharin sings_

_Come my love come_

_The night is dark_

_Gods know I tried_

_Come, hold me close_

_The stars are many_

_But they all have died_

_I know not what comes after_

_I know only, this I know you_

_More than I know myself_

_The centuries will pass_

_Our bodies return to dust_

_They may scorn us they_

_They do not know us_

_But I do_

_I do_

The room was once again silent. The words matched the sonourous music perfectly. Chaman felt a tightness in his throat. He wanted to weep. He was the first to clap. The others joined in. Kartik and Aman were silent as if wrought from stone. 

“Aayush and Taharin?” Chaman asked after the applause died down. “Is it from your poem.”

Kartik bowed his head in acknowledgement “I cannot make music. I can only write, but Aman’s composition was fitting.”

“It has no distinct rhyme,” said Aman with a sly smile.

Kartik laughed at that. Somehow poetry that did not rhyme had become a topic of amusement for the two of them.

“You write well,” said Kaali. “It is an interesting interpretation of their relationship. And to write it in Balkari.”

“It is history,” said Aman. “I have read it with my own eyes, Kaali.”

“I have half a mind to write my own epic in Balkari,” said Chaman. “It would be fitting would it not?”

“I have a mind to change the national language itself,” said Parvaaz. “It is only a matter of time that the languages mix. It is better for us if we institutionalize it early on.”

Sunaina rolled her eyes. “I called a private meal so we did not have to discuss matters of state.”

“Sorry,” said Parvaaz. He sounded sincere.

“Do not apologise. I had my own matter of state to discuss.” she turned to her son “Aman?”

“Yes, mother?”

“What of the Laal Panj Ceremony? I think it is about time it happened.”

Aman looked at her and then at Kartik. He braved a smile and said politely “Perhaps the day before we leave Chandan. It would be fitting would it not, for Mahan's last consort to perform the ceremony, on the last day we leave Mahan.”

Chaman knew then what Aman was doing. He was putting it off until necessary. It was clear the two kings still had not spoken of Shankar’s death with each other.

_Brother,_ he asked the dead _why must you overshadow everything? Even after your death?_

~~~

Rajini was sitting in Kusum’s room after their dinner with the whole family. Kartik and Aman’s song still rang in her ears _I know you m_ _ore than I know myself_. She looked at Kusum who was brushing her hair for the night. It fell in dark waves around her shoulders. Kusum turned around and met Rajini’s eyes with a smile. This time Rajini did not look away.

She took such small liberties now simply because she could. She still could not quite believe that this woman. This beautiful, amazing, graceful woman could possibly feel anything for her. The evening in the sunflower fields felt like a deranged fever dream sometimes, it did not feel real. She could not bring herself to believe it.

But her lips were still red from their last kiss. She could believe in that much at least.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Kusum.

“About you.” said Rajini leaning back, raising a corner of her lips. 

Kusum rolled her eyes and continued brushing her. Her cheeks were red, however. Rajini marvelled at that too. 

She had been coming to Kusum’s room almost every night for the past seven nights. Only for an hour at most. Nothing that would cause anyone to be suspicious. Nothing that seemed out of the ordinary for two friends. But this one hour, everyday, she cherished more than anything. It did not matter if they kissed each other, touched each other, or simply sat by each other in conversation or silence. It did not matter. As long as it was Kusum. 

They had both agreed, that day amongst sunflowers, that while Mandhav was around they would have to keep their relationship a secret. It would not bode well if Mandhav knew his sweetheart and once-promised was seeing someone else. 

The thoughts of Mandhav took Rajini back to the task put upon her at the council meeting. She found herself grimacing

“There’s something on your mind,” noticed Kusum. “What is it?”

Rajini was not sure how to bring it up. She knew Kusum did not want to think about Mandhav. None of them did. But she had to say something.

“There is something I must ask of you,” said Rajini quietly. “Though I do not want to do it. It feels like I’m putting you in danger of something.”

Kusum stopped brushing her hair. Carefully she placed the brush down on her dresser and made her way towards Rajini. She knelt before taking her face in her hands and pressing their foreheads together, her hands clutching her hair. Her gaze held Rajini’s furiously. 

“Tell me,” she insisted.

Rajini caught her hands and kissed them both. She held onto them and met her lover’s eyes. She did not want to ruin this moment. She wanted it to last forever. She did not speak. She did not want to. But she had to, for the sake of both kingdoms.

“It is about Mandhav,”

Kusum stiffened. And Rajini hated herself for even bringing it up. But she ran her thumb against the other woman’s knuckles as Keshav often did when she was scared or nervous. She hoped it would give Kusum some semblance of comfort.

“I will not force you to do anything but the council needs someone to speak to him. To extract information, figure out his motives. He would not reveal them to either of us. We thought because you were once promised to each other he might speak to you more openly.”

Kusum was silent for a while. She seemed to be ruminating over something. Her sweet features and kind eyes clouded by melancholy. 

“You do not have to do this,” Rajini said squeezing her hand. “You do not have to do anything. None of us want to force you into this.”

“I know,” whispered Kusum almost to herself. She looked like she was about to weep. Her eyes met Rajini’s. “I know that. But will it help if I talk to him?”

“More than you know,” said Rajini.

Kusum leaned forward and placed a kiss on Rajini’s forehead. “Then I will speak to him. I will try my best.”

  
  


* * *

[Saibo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HooL3vTDMd8) from Shor in the City


	32. A Hundred Gold Coins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be updating on Fridays I think from now on instead of every five days. Ironically I am busier in my holidays than I am during uni.

We all made a sacrifice

On the days the kings wed

It be may be home, love, or life

But unto glory, our nation was led

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Kusum was taken to Rakesh’s rooms the very next morning. Rajini had wanted to be there with her, but Kusum had reasoned that ‘Mandhav’ would not speak openly if anyone else was there. So here she was alone in the room with Rakesh, for the first time in a long time. He did not seem particularly happy to see Kusum. Which was fine by her. She was not particularly happy to see him either.

She had found a certain happiness with Rajini that she had not felt in a long time. But she knew she could not shake off Rakesh so easily. He was dangerous. The marks on her neck may have faded, but in her dreams, she could still feel his fingers at her throat intent on choking the life out of her. 

They had both changed. She, her loyalties for the better. Him, his personality for the worse. She no longer wanted revenge for what happened to her family. She could not hurt Rajini like that. Rajini, who trusted her. Rajini, who loved her. She also could not blame the other Tripathi’s, who had shown her so much kindness, for something Shankar had done. 

While she would have liked to have killed Shankar Tripathi with her own hands, it was not right to take it out on the others. To the people who considered her family.

“What took you so long?” Rakesh asked, a sneer at his lips. “I have been waiting for you for two weeks. The Akhtari bastard refused my request three times on your behalf.”

Kartik had only told her of Rakesh’s request once. He must not have wanted to distress her unnecessarily. It seemed he had taken on the role of her brother in earnest. It filled her heart with a certain warmth. A warmth she had only felt with her blood brother before he had died. 

“There was much to prepare for our journey to Akhtar,” she said politely. “Besides it would not look right for me to throw myself into your arms, after you practically insulted me in front of the whole court. What were you thinking?”

Rakesh laughed “Insulted you? I was telling the truth. You are mine and soon Mandhav’s lands will be mine too.”

_I am not yours._ She thought. _Not truly. Not anymore and someday I will make you realise that._

“I thought we were to escape, take a ship down south,” she said, taking on the sweet voice that Rakesh loved so well. “I do not understand why we have to plan this deception.”

“I have better plans for us,” he answered resolutely. “I have struck a better deal.”

_Deal?_ Deal implied two people. Rakesh was in league with someone else. Someone who was most likely powerful, someone in court. From his secrecy, he had become involved in something bigger than them. Something bigger than their plan to escape from Mahan. She found she wanted no part in it.

“Tell me,” said Kusum.

“I cannot,” he said. 

“Why?” she asked. “You have never hidden anything from me.”

She highly doubted that statement. But it was better to act the naive devoted lover for now. 

“Neither have you,” Rakesh’s voice was quiet. “What is this rumour that I hear about you and the Commander-in-Chief?”

“It is a rumour,” she answered. “Nothing more.”

A part of her had wanted to say _it is no rumour._ A part of her had wanted to be brave. To be fearlessly in love with Rajini. But that would not have been wise. That would not have been reasonable. Not here, not now, not with Rakesh. 

How could he have heard about it? She and Rajini had kept it a secret from everyone else except for their family. There could have been no room for rumours. It only strengthened her resolve that Rakesh had somehow fallen in league with someone who was powerful.

“Just like how the marriage proposals between our two kings were nothing more than a rumour?” he asked her. “Rumours do not stay rumours for very long these days it seems. You are mine, do you understand that.”

She ignored him. 

“I cannot stay too long. They have sent me here,” she said. “To figure out your motives. What do you want me to tell them?”

Rakesh smiled at her. “Tell them what they want to hear. Tell them I am dangerous. Tell them I am intent on taking back my keep, killing the Akhtari king, inciting revenge for the death of my father by killing Aman.”

Kusum nodded. Though she was not sure what he was planning. He was not telling her. But he did accidentally let slip that there was someone else involved, someone else more powerful than them. That someone was powerful and rich could very well be in their inner circle. Though when she thought of the inner circle she could not imagine any one of them trying to betray each other. 

_But then again_ she thought _Betrayal only comes from those you trust. Never from those you count your enemies._

She thought of Rajini then. _She must never know_ Kusum reasoned, Of _the part I played in this. That betrayal would never be forgiven._

Kusum smiled back at Rakesh. For good measure, she leaned forward and kissed him firmly on lips before drawing back and making her way out of the room. She closed the door behind her and came face to face with Rajini. 

The other woman had evidently been waiting nervously, too proud to eavesdrop, too anxious to leave her spot. Her expression was clouded with concern. 

“Are you-”

“I’m fine,” Kusum interrupted. “He did not hurt me.”

Rajini relaxed at that. She gave a small smile and offered Kusum her elbow. She took it without hesitation. Together they left the entrance to Rakesh’s chambers and made their way to gardens. They were in full bloom, the very peak of their beauty. Instinctively Kusum reached out for a handful of jasmine flowers. She started placing them in the clefts of Rajini’s braid.

“Did he say anything of use?” Rajini asked after a while.

“He is intent on finishing what his father started,” said Kusum. “He hates the Akhtari and Aman for killing his father.”

Kusum had never seen the execution of Lord Dasmesh herself but she for one was glad that Aman had killed him. Dasmesh had killed the other Kusum with his own sword. He had cut open her throat without a second thought. Then he had brought her dead body before Kusum and told her that no one could save her now.

Rajini nodded at the information, “His pretenses of peace are false then.”

“There is something else,” Kusum said.

“What else is there?”

Kusum took in a deep breath “He did not tell me outright but...he spoke of having struck a deal. I think someone in the Mahanite court may be helping him.”

~~~

Keshav for once was not reading. He was lying on his back looking up the hangings of his bed. He had been in one of his moments of melancholy. This had always been his room as soon as he had been old enough to leave the nursery. This city, Chandan, had always been his home. And now he was to leave it for good. 

There had never been a time when he could not go wading in the Godsblade, never been a time when he could not seek comfort in the palace’s library. He knew every nook and cranny of this place. If he were to liken leaving Chandan to anything he would say it was as if he were a tree and he was being ripped from the soil, by his roots displaced and without comfort. 

_But we will be placed in new soil in Shafaq,_ he reminded himself. _Soil that is more fertile. We will all have to sacrifice something to grow stronger, even if we have to sacrifice home._

There was a knock at the door. “Keshav are you inside?”

It was Parvaaz, Keshav rose from his bed. “Yes please come in.”

The door opened and Parvaaz came in grinning from ear to ear “I came to give this back.”

He held out Keshav’s copy of _The Lion and The Eagle and other Tales_ , the very one Keshav had kept by him for years. The one his father had given him as a child. Parvaaz had been interested in Mahanite folk tales and so Keshav had given him his copy without hesitation. It was strange how fast they had become friends. The man was sixteen years older than him and Akhtari, but Keshav had never met someone who was as interested in books as he was. 

Keshav took the book from him. Its familiar comforting shape falling into place into his hands. 

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked Parvaaz, gesturing for him to take a seat. Parvaaz sat down on the desk and Keshav sat opposite him.

“It is fascinating,” said Parvaaz. “I always said that children’s tales or folktales often tell us about our morals as a country. Ours more often than not overlap on many fronts. So many stories, _The Lion and Eagle_ story for example, we have it too.”

“Perhaps we should write a book of children’s tales,” suggested Keshav. “Combining both the stories of our nation, so that there is no sense of division for future generations.”

“It will not be hard seeing that we have many stories in common,” said Parvaaz. “We should write it in Balkari as well.”

“You seem very passionate on that front,”

Parvaaz smiled “History will thank us later for it. You said so yourself we cannot risk any divisions for future generations.”

Keshav knew exactly what he meant. By combining their cultures and institutionalising it early on, they would be able to prevent divisions in both race and culture. It would effectively and officially demolish and sort of righteousness or superiority the cultural purists would otherwise feel.

“There is something I mean to ask you,” said Parvaaz after a while.

“Anything,”

“In your book, there is a watercolor painting of a woman. Who is she?”

_The Lion and the Eagle and Other Tales_ was no longer just a book to Keshav. It had become a representation of his soul. He had placed little trinkets and memories within the pages. When he had given Parvaaz his copy he had neglected to take them out. But he trusted Parvaaz enough to know he would not throw them out.

“Was,” Keshav corrected. “She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Parvaaz’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “She was special to you I gather?”

Sometimes it was still hard to believe that she was dead. If he closed his eyes he could still remember a time when they were children, when Jaimini still allowed herself to be called Jayraj, climbing that great tree that grew just by the Godsblade. He would be reading and she would try her best to distract him. In the end, she would lay her head on his shoulder and read with him, making snide remarks at character choices.

It still hurt to talk about her, but it hurt more not to “She and I were to be married. She died of Green Fever two weeks before we were to wed.”

“I’m sorry,” Parvaaz said again. “It must have been difficult. I’m not sure what to say.”

“You do not have to say anything,” said Keshav. He knew very well the awkwardness that came when someone has told you something significant and heart-wrenching. “I have had too much sympathy for a lifetime. It would be nice to talk about her without someone pitying me for it.”

“Would you like to talk about her?” asked Parvaaz. “What was she like?”

“She was wild, fierce. She was beautiful.” Keshav smiled. “When all else failed she was one of the only people that could bring Aman out of his shell. She would always induce him into bets. Before she died she wagered a hundred gold coins on Rajini and Kusum.”

Jaimini’s death had shattered everyone in the Tripathi family one way or another. Keshav had felt it the hardest. Aman was a close second. He often used to think that Aman had lost the last of his humanity when she died. That was until Kartik arrived.

“She would have won,” remarked Parvaaz. “I would have liked to have known her.”

“She would have liked you,” Keshav could see her eyes still sparkling with their perpetual mirth. “Of course she would have called you a bookworm and worse but I think she would have taken to you.”

Parvaaz placed a hand to his heart and looked up towards the heavens. Keshav recognised it as an Akhtari salute. For what he did not know. Slowly Parvaaz spoke in Akhtari.

“To the stars of heaven, to the friend I have never met, know you were loved.” Parvaaz looked back at Keshav and noted his inquisitive expression. “It is Akhtari tradition, a way to speak to the dead. For we believe they dwell among the stars and hear us still.”

Keshav was touched by this gesture more than he wanted to admit. He wanted to weep but he did not want to make Parvaaz uncomfortable. So he smiled the tears away.

“Enough of my tragic love life,” said Keshav. “Do you have anyone waiting for you in Akhtar?”

“No one,” said Parvaaz.

“Unlucky in love?” Keshav questioned. But Parvaaz did not have the attitude of someone who was unlucky in love.

“I am not interested,” said Parvaaz. 

“Too caught up in your books?” 

Parvaaz smiled and shook his head “I simply do not feel attraction, romantic or otherwise."

Before either of them could say more a messenger entered the room. He nodded his head in deference to both of them before he announced:

“Your presence is required in the council chambers.”

~~~

Devika had taken her place beside Kartik as they waited for Chaman, Keshav and Parvaaz to arrive. She was leaning her head against Kartik’s shoulder as they sat in silence. No one had spoken, no one had wanted to speak. 

Kusum had not wanted to be present in the council room, opting to tell Rajini everything that had occurred between her and Mandhav instead of telling the council. Which was all the better, they needed to discuss delicate matters of state.

Finally, Chaman Keshav and Parvaaz arrived and took their places at the table.

“Is Kusum well?” asked Chaman finally.

Devika cursed herself for not thinking of how this might have affected Kusum. She herself should have inquired after Kusum not merely thinking about matters of state. She had learned a lot from Chaman, and one of those things was that the difference between a good statesperson and a great statesperson was not how well they could argue laws, but rather being able to balance the needs of the state with compassion. Chaman was not admired for his lawmaking, but his compassion. 

“A little shaken.” admitted Rajini. “But other than that she seemed well.”

“What did he tell her?” asked Kaali. 

Rajini looked over them all once over “Our suspicions prove correct. Mandhav seems to think Kusum would be a party to his plans. He intends to bring both nations to war. When that failed he sought to take back his keep and raise an army, finishing what his father started.”

“If his tale is true and he has dealings with the Southern Islanders,” said Parvaaz. “That explains the presence of the sea-steel dagger in Kashatr,” 

The news washed over them. Devika found herself considering. _Mandhav is clever and dangerous but a reckless fool when plans do not go his way. He is making a mistake in trusting Kusum. This is good for us._

“There is another thing,” said Rajini. “Kusum has reason to believe that he has had help from someone in the Mahanite court. She spoke of him striking a deal with someone.”

“That’s impossible!” came Kaali’s response. It sounded irritated, angry. 

Devika turned to him, her suspicions ignited. _Could he be the one?_ She never quite liked the man. But nonetheless she could not let that cloud her reason.

“What do you mean impossible?" she questioned.

“No one could betray Aman like that. No one would dare support Mandhav. None supported Dasmesh then who would support his derelict son now.”

Devika should have relaxed at his response, it was a reasonable one, but she could not relax. His initial outburst was off-putting. No one else seemed to notice it, so she accepted it, face value.

“Allegiances could change,” said Devika. “This marriage was the idea of the common folk more than anything. I know _you_ for one were opposed to it.”

Kaali bowed his head in acknowledgement “My only opposition was due to personal... _vendettas._ I did not expect the marriage to turn out so loving.”

There was a barely perceptible shift in Aman’s position and a hint of bitterness in Kaali’s words. Shankar’s death was a sore spot for both of them that much was clear. But Aman loved Kartik and Kartik loved Aman. They will overcome it, Devika knew it in her heart to be true.

“If Mandhav struck deal with someone in court it would mean he has the resources and backing,” said Devika. “But does anyone have enough resources to fund a full-fledged rebellion against two combined nations?”

“Three,” said Keshav. “Eskabad would come to our aid when required.”

_Which man would be crazed enough to risk the wrath of three whole nations with the backing of some petty lord?_ Wondered Devika. _Perhaps the lord is not so petty as we may think him. Perhaps it is not one lord._

“After Chandan, which province is the greatest in Mahan?” Devika questioned. 

“The Dragonfly province,” came Keshav’s ready answer, no doubt he was thinking along the same lines as Devika.

“The Lord Karatoygar is loyal to us,” said Aman. “He would not engage in such a betrayal.”

“Nonetheless,” said Kaali. “We should send spies to the South, as a precaution.”

“And what of Mandhav?” asked Kartik. “What should we do with him?”

“We should imprison him,” said Aman after a long silence. “Hold him here in Chandan. Set an example for any noble family who dares to rebel.”

“And risk the ire of the common people by imprisoning a man without trial?” Kartik questioned. “We do everything for them.” he gave a wry smile. “We did not marry each other for love, not at first. Our marriage is for them. We cannot risk it-”

“Kartik-” started Aman but he was interrupted by Kaali. 

“Kartik is right,” he said. “We cannot risk it.”

“What are we doing then?” asked Parvaaz. 

“The only option then would be to give him what he wants,” said Aman. “We cannot do that.”

“We know only this,” said Chaman. “He can be trusted against us. What do you think will happen if we do give him what he wants?”

“Rally the men towards him,” said Rajini. “Convince them of a just cause and incite them against both kingdoms.”

Devika deliberated all this in the silence that followed and then spoke “We should give him what he wants with the exception of Kusum.” she did not want Mandhav anywhere near her. “As Chaman said we can trust him against us. We will take all the necessary precautions. Give him his lands, his titles, welcome him with open arms. But then we send spies to track his every move. He has proven to be reckless in coming here. We give him a false sense of security by giving him what he wants. We find out his plans and foil them.”

Kaali smiled at her. “You have the makings of a great stateswoman mark my words. I for one agree to this plan.”

After a discussion on the finer points, they agreed to give him his lands and titles. They also agreed in infiltrating his keep with their spies. Since Dasmesh’s castle was on the border between Mahan and Akhtar the royal family will personally escort him there and bestow him with all honours, including servants and soldiers that were loyal to the throne and the throne only. The plan was a sound one. 

Since there was nothing more to discuss Kaali and Chaman left the meeting early. Rajini leaned back against her chair and grinned up at Aman.

“What is it?” asked Aman.

“Godsblade,” said Rajini. “At dusk?”

“Today?” asked Aman. “Rajini…”

“We will be gone in a few weeks, this evening may be our only free evening in Chandan besides,” she turned to Parvaaz, Kartik and Devika. “You three can’t say you have been to Mahan and have not waded in the Godsblade.”

~~~

“We should bring Gabru with us,” said Kartik as they left their rooms to take a change of clothes in order to prepare for an evening at the banks of the Godsblade.

Aman had initially wanted to refuse but he had not swum in the river in a year. He wanted to be there one more time before he left Chandan, the home of his childhood, for good. 

“Why?” asked Aman. “He might drown.”

“Dogs are excellent swimmers,” said Kartik, he then turned to Aman grinning as if he found out a secret of his. “Was that concern for Gabru? It thought you did not like him.”

Aman scoffed at Kartik’s suggestion. Though in truth he did not want anything to happen to the dog. He knew how much Kartik loved him. He was already taking the other man’s life, he could not take what little happiness he had left too. 

“We will take a small detour to the kennels then,” said Aman. “If he drowns it's your fault.”

Kartik wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek. Their touches had gotten more casual in the last two months. He had seen Kartik freely place such kisses on everyone’s cheeks, even Qabid’s, but nonetheless it stirred something deep within Aman’s heart and he was reminded again of the passionate kiss they had shared in the training arena. 

They made their way to the kennels, where the kennel master, Vansh, had just finished feeding the dogs. When he saw the two kings he bowed to them.

“I suppose you will be wanting Gabru,” said the kennel master. 

“Yes thank you, you have been good to him, has he eaten?” asked Kartik. 

“He’s had his share,” said Vansh leading Gabru out of the kennels and towards Kartik. He handed Kartik the leash as Gabru greeted his master by licking his fingers. Kartik scratched him behind the ears.

Noticing Aman's presence, Gabru went up to him and started licking his fingers too. Despite himself, Aman felt a warmth, a rush of affection for the dog. He gave Gabru an awkward pat on the head before turning around, heading towards the gardens where they had agreed to meet Rajini and others. Kartik and Gabru followed after him. 

Rajini was there alongside Kusum. Devika and Keshav were present too. Parvaaz had decided not to come along claiming to be too old and his health too delicate. As soon as Kartik saw Kusum he handed Aman Gabru’s leash and embraced her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, pulling away. “You did a very brave thing today.”

“He did not hurt me,” she assured him. “You worry too much.”

“Not as much as Rajini would have I assure you,” said Kartik with a knowing grin.

“You brought Gabru?” questioned Devika with a half-smile at Aman holding Gabru’s leash. She went over and rubbed him affectionately.

“I thought he would enjoy it too,” said Kartik. “We all need a break after today.”

In the ease of warm conversation that would not have been imaginable to Aman in the Autumn before he married Kartik, they made their way to the banks of the Godsblade.

When they finally arrived the sun was on its downward journey and the people, the washermen and women, the little children and evening bathers were starting on their journeys home. The only people who would be present were stray lovers and the occasional lone swimmer.

Gabru ran circles around them as they stripped to their underclothes. As Kartik removed his shirt the whole expanse of his scarred torso was bared for the whole world to see. 

“Are all those scars from the Battle of the Broken Will?” asked Rajini. “I did not realise you sustained so many injuries.”

Kartik stiffened. His eyes met Devika’s briefly before he shook his head. He said no more and became preoccupied with the drawstrings of his trousers. He was unusually quiet and no one questioned him further.

Kartik had probably thought nothing of it until then. They were a part of him now. Devika probably knew the story behind each and every mark. Aman himself had seen them so many times he could probably sketch them out with his eyes closed.

But Keshav, Rajini and Kusum had never seen them. They were most likely very curious. Aman could not blame their curiosity but he also felt the vulnerability that Kartik would have felt having accidentally shown someone the marks of a struggle you would rather forget. Aman knew because Kartik was not the only one of them with scars. Aman had them too. They lined his thighs, precise and perfect, too high for anyone to see, even if he stripped to his underclothes. Unseen by everyone else, just like the pain that he had long nurtured inside him. Just like the demons that had warred in him, the demons that would resurface from time to time.

“If _I_ drown,” whispered Kartik, leaning over to Aman as he finally undid the drawstrings of his trousers. “Can I trust you to save me?”

Aman looked at him incredulously “Can you not swim?”

“I did not have the privilege of having a literal river running behind my home,” said Kartik. He seemed nervous, he was fumbling with the drawstrings. 

Aman met his eyes. “It’s only the shallows, and besides I’m not letting mere water kill you.”

“Because I am yours.”

“Something like that.”

Kartik smiled and he seemed visibly relaxed. Finally taking off his trousers Kartik kicked them aside. Much like the Mahanite the Akhtari wore long pleated undershorts called _keccheras_ that reached their knees. They were worn by all genders, with women typically opting for a _sameej_ to cover their breasts. The word _kecchera,_ in the ancient tongue meaning _armour_ had miraculously stayed the same for both languages. In the old days it was said that ancient warriors used to wander the wilderness wearing their _keccheras_ and armour alone. They were strong and durable if made right.

Kusum already had Rajini by the hand she leaned in close and whispered something in his cousin's ear which made her laugh. Aman could not help but smile at the sight of them. He had been waiting for this to happen for five whole years. Ever since Kusum had arrived in Chandan, worn out in threadbare finery, he had seen how Rajini had taken to her. That, his own personal preferences aside, was one of the reasons why he had not wished to go through with his mother’s wishes of marrying Kusum.

More than anything though he thought of Jaimini, Keshav’s love. Aman and Jaimini had made a bet three years ago. They had both known Kusum and Rajini would be together, their bet concerned the timing. Aman had less faith in his cousin and said it would take at least seven years, Jaimini had said five. She would have won those hundred gold coins today. 

His mind turned to Keshav who was looking at the large weeping willow tree that grew by the banks of the river. He knew that Keshav and Jaimini would often spend their time here. He knew this river and this tree held many memories for him. He thought his cousin brave for coming here. He himself could not visit his father’s tomb save for the anniversary of his death where he would swear vengeance again.

He was just about to talk to Keshav to distract him when Gabru took a decided interest in Devika’s now discarded blouse. He snatched it up and started playing with it like a long lost toy. 

“Gabru!” Devika cried out.

Gabru looked back at her guiltily before racing into the water, Devika at his heels. 

“Kartik!” continued Devika’s cursing. “I swear to the gods I am going to kill you first then I will drown your fucking dog!”

They all laughed then, but to Aman Kartik’s laughter sounded the sweetest of them all. 

_When did it come to this?_ He wondered briefly. _Enjoying the sound of his laughter instead of despising it._

_It has always been like this_ said a part of his mind. _Ever since that night in the temple or have you forgotten how you had wanted to make him smile? Hear him laugh and say your name._

He stopped his thoughts before they became any more treacherous than they already were. Kartik laughing started to move towards her and Gabru in an attempt to resolve the situation. Eventually, he managed to wrangle Devika’s now mangled blouse from Gabru’s jaws and held it out to Devika. Furiously Devika tackled him into the currents of the river.

For a moment Aman thought she would keep true to her promise and kill Kartik by drowning him. He almost went forward to wrestle Devika off him. But in the end Devika let go, her fury spent, and Kartik broke through the surface, spluttering and laughing. The water poured down from him in great sleets. 

It reminded Aman of the _abaatma,_ the water spirits that were said to dwell in the Godsblade. It was said that they were beautiful creatures made from the river itself, even without light you could see the ripples of the river on their body. 

Grinning Kartik shook the water out of his hair. His hair curled slightly, glistened along with the rest of him. His laughing eyes met Aman’s, the beautiful grin of his still plastered on his face. He wanted to...no. 

He knew he should not think like this. He knew that he was only making Kartik’s inevitable death by his own hand harder for himself to bear. 

But there was no point in denying it. He wanted to go back to that day in the arena, he wanted to go back to holding Kartik against him. He wanted to let go of the oaths he found himself honour bound to fulfill. He wanted to forget. But most of all he wanted him. He did not know which way, whether it was simply lust or something more, but his touch had left an ache for which he could find no remedy. 

It was then that his body betrayed him. He felt that familiar drop in the pit of his stomach, the quickening, and hardening of his loins. The irritating thing was that it was not the first time the sight of Kartik had done this to him. 

Usually, he knew how to handle it. Usually, it was not so public. Even if it was, the thick layers of his pleated trousers would hide it. His _kecchera_ however was another matter entirely. He had let go of his emotions, his thoughts, he had failed to rein them in. And they had manifested physically in this... _shame._

“Aman are you coming?” asked Kartik.

Hearing his voice, seeing the concern on his face made it worse. Aman turned around his back to the river and willed himself to think of something else. Anything else.

“Aman? Are you alright?” It was Kusum who spoke. 

“Yes just admiring the city from here,” he answered trying to sound casual. 

“There’s not much to admire,” Rajini scoffed. “It’s just home.”

“Something’s wrong,” said Keshav.

“Shut up Keshav, it's nothing,” Aman said sharply. “Don’t irritate me.”

“Which means there _is_ something wrong,” said Rajini. “Come on Aman we will not hurt you.”

_No, you will just tease me mercilessly._

“Leave me be,” he said.

_How could you let yourself lose control like that?_ He was not sure who was reprimanding him. Whether it was himself, his vengeance, or the ghost of his father. He did not know. But he let the accusations flow over him. _How could you let this happen? How could you lust after the man who killed your father? You are no better than a whore._

The accusations brought a stinging to his eyes. The tears ran down cheeks in bold furious strokes. Fastidiously he started wiping them away. The others must have noticed, for there was dead silence behind him. 

“Aman are you crying?” it was Kartik who spoke through the silence. 

“There is something wrong with my eyes,” he replied. He could not hide the tears in his voice. Not properly.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kusum.

He had to think of something quickly.

“The pupils of my eyes have gotten big!” Aman finally said. He then cursed himself for thinking of something so ridiculous. 

“The pupils of your eyes?” questioned Devika. “How do you know? You can’t see them.”

There was a pause then Kusum spoke “Can you feel your pupils dilating?”

“He’s a physician’s apprentice,” said Kartik obliviously. “He probably has some secret method of knowing.”

There was silence. Then the light hushed chattering between them reached Aman’s ears and Aman knew what they were trying to do. He knew it came in good faith. But he did not want anyone near him.

“Why me?” came Kartik’s not so hushed whisper.

“You married him,” came Rajini’s slightly louder voice. “Go!”

There was a splash of water and the squelching of mud and he knew Kartik was coming his way and he would see. Aman knew he would not tease him, not when he could tell it distressed him. But he did not want him to see. He would die of shame if he did.

“Aman,” he was just behind him now. “May I have a look at your eyes?”

  
  
“Leave me alone,” said Aman. “Please.”

“Aman-”

Before he could say more, however, Gabru started barking, and from the sounding of it he was bounding towards them. 

“Gabru no!” came Kartik’s voice. “Down! Sit! Gab-”

With a resounding slosh and a loud groan from Kartik, it was clear that Gabru had decided to amuse himself by tackling Kartik to the ground. Aman looked around at the others, They were either laughing or looking at Kartik and Gabru’s struggle in the mud. Aman took this opportunity to quietly slip into the river and submerge himself wholly in the Godsblade. 

His tears were cleansed along with them went his turmoil. Cooled and smothered. He found the... _symptoms_ of his shameful thoughts were lessening. He knew water to be a double-edged sword when it came to such matters. He was relieved. 

Aman emerged to the surface, calmer, more collected, and amused himself by the sight of Kartik finally getting Gabru off him. He was covered head to toe in mud. 

“I’m dirty!” he exclaimed he turned to Gabru. “And it's your fault. Bad dog.”

Gabru seemed to pay Kartik's accusations no heed; he was looking at Aman intently, solemnly, watching, waiting. Aman had a strange feeling that the dog _knew_. He would have to remind himself to thank him later. Even if Gabru did not fully understand what he had done for Aman, he was grateful for the his intervention.

“Brother,” the voice was Keshav’s, it was spoken low barely audible. “Are you getting homesick?”

He was touched by Keshav’s concern and ashamed that the cause of his problems was not so elegant and far more vulgar. He felt a certain guilt too. _I am taking them all away from their real home._

“Yes,” he said anyway. In a way it was true. Chandan had always been home.

“Me too.” Keshav smiled. “And we have not even left Chandan.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll gotta hand it to me. The fact that I made the latter section angsty and depressing requires skill and merit.


	33. Bloodied Hands and Rose Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Noshin for medical knowledge on blood ceremony (every writer needs a doctor friend yes). Also thanks to Mehan and Dhyan for helping with the Laal Panj ceremony and Dhyan for providing songs and putting up with my fascination for blood.
> 
> Special mention to @smzs_fanfics_fanpage on insta. Thanks for the motivation through memes. I think I know who you are btw.

A thousand generations speak through us

With their voices, we calm the raging seas

The fires of hell cannot bring us down

Our songs are the sweetness in the breeze

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

The next few weeks passed in packing and planning for their journey to Akhtar. In a fit of what Kartik suspected was pettiness, Aman decreed that no one was to inform Mandhav of their plans until three days before they actually left Chandan. They all kept true to their word. Surprisingly Mandhav had taken the news calmly, almost as if he knew that this would happen. Kartik had to owe it to him, his patience was admirable. 

After the night at the Godsblade Aman had been a little more reserved. Not that he had ever been very open with Kartik in the first place but he had been slowly improving. It felt like a relapse into an earlier era of their relationship, when Aman’s anger had simmered under the silence, clouded reason itself. But he did not lash out at Kartik as he used to, so Kartik attributed it to the sadness of him leaving his childhood home. More often than not Kartik tried his best to distract him from melancholy with jokes, discussions on music, language, philosophy, and state. 

When he was too busy to see Aman in person, he would leave behind humorous notes and satirical poems. Aman would often return these notes with his opinion and criticisms scrawled in tiny careful handwriting through the paper. Kartik kept each and everyone that returned to him. 

He was a fool he knew for plunging himself into an impossible love but he did not feel inclined to care the least.  _ Let my heart be crippled, let it be splayed open, let all my love for him bleed out, let it kill me. I do not care. I want to feel it all before I am gone.  _

Aman also had also taken up the habit of disappearing at different times of the day often for hours on end. Kartik knew Aman was trying to be inconspicuous about it but Kartik caught onto it anyway. He often wondered whether he had taken up to visiting the inn of the Laughing Moon again for solace or for the arms of another man. The latter thought rankled him. 

Despite their marriage, he knew he had no right to Aman, his body, his soul, or even his heart. Yet it did not stop the jealousy. He let it seep through him, curdled and unchecked. It festered like a wound for he had no remedy.

The answer to Aman’s mysterious disappearances came on the day that they were to leave Chandan for good, the day of the Laal Panj ceremony. Everything was packed and Kartik was in their room (which originally had been just Aman’s). It had been stripped of everything that had made it theirs. Aman’s jewelry was gone, Aman’s favourite painting was also gone as were his clothes.

Kartik was sitting at the desk. It was bare too, save for the few pieces of parchment, the box in which Kartik kept his writings and the quill and ink with which he was writing with. He had been working on the scene where Taharin spied Aayush for the first time. He found more often than not he was thinking of Aman and their first meeting in the temple as he wrote.

_ His eyes glittered  _

_ with the thousand swords _

_ of our doom _

_ In their reflection _

_ I saw the deaths _

_ I saw the wounds _

_ But I did not care _

_ For your voice was warm _

_ Your laughter quick and bright _

_ My heart raged on against _

_ The dying of our night _

Gabru barked at him as he wrote the final line.

“Not now,” said Kartik, barely looking up. 

Gabry had been sitting by Kartik’s feet noisily chewing at a bone that one of the cooks had generously donated. He had been patient, amusing himself as he could. But something had disturbed his peace. Exasperated, Kartik urged the dog to be quiet. 

Aman did not particularly like having Gabru in the room, but Aman was not here and Kartik was sure there was enough time to stow Gabru away before Aman came in. If only he did not make so much noise.

To Kartik's surprise, at that moment Aman walked in holding something wrapped in a piece of cloth. Kartik looked up at him guiltily and Gabru ceased his noisy barking, wagging his tail in delight. He must have smelled Aman coming.

“I was going to take him back to the carriage with the other hunting dogs that will be travelling with us,” said Kartik trying desperately to form a reasonable excuse for why Gabru was here but he was saved from doing so by Aman himself.

“I was going to go and see him anyway,” said Aman. 

Kartik gave his husband a quizzical look when Aman handed him the cloth-wrapped package. 

“It’s for Gabru,” Aman explained. “I’ve had the smiths work on it for weeks.”

Kartik found himself smiling,  _ so that was where he had been going off too.  _ He felt a sense of relief then a sense of guilt for feeling that relief.  _ You may love him but you have no right to this jealousy. He is not yours. He will never be. If he finds comfort in arms that are not yours it is his right.  _

“Give it to Gabru yourself,” he said quickly.

Aman seemed hesitant but he did not argue with Kartik. He knelt by Gabru and scratched his ears. Kartik noted with a certain satisfaction that Aman was less awkward around the dog, perhaps even a little more affectionate than he had been since Gabru’s introduction almost two months ago.

Kartik watched with curiosity as Aman unravelled the cloth to reveal a delicate, beautiful, but sturdily made jewelled collar. In its centre was a pendant with Gabru’s name engraved on it.

He placed it around Gabru’s neck. Gabru, as always, seemed to gauge the gravity of the situation. He proceeded to lick Aman’s face profusely which caused the latter to break into a large grin. Kartik's heart almost stilled its beating. He had never seen Aman so spontaneously happy. He found that he would do anything to see that expression again.

“For someone who despises him you are strangely affectionate,” remarked Kartik. 

“He’s a royal dog now,” said Aman. “I thought he needed something to mark him separate from the others.”

“You are giving him presents,” said Kartik. “And you expect me to believe you feel no affection for him?”

  
  
“I gave  _ you _ a present too,” said Aman eyeing the nose ring. “It means nothing. I am merely doing what is required.”

Kartik was wearing the same nose ring he wore during their wedding, the same one Aman had given him during their engagement. It had become a favourite of Kartik’s, mostly because he felt it was a part of Aman that he could claim as solely his own. 

But Aman’s words rang in his ears.  _ It means nothing.  _ He tried not to let it taint the sentiment that the nose ring held for him. Of course, it meant nothing to Aman. But it meant more than the world that Kartik. He could live with Aman’s hate, but not his indifference. He gave Aman a wry smile, though he could feel a certain anger, a certain poison race through his veins. They said naught. Aman fixed the folds of his turban.

“Are you ready for the ceremony?” Aman asked after a while.

“I am, I just need to wait for the ink to dry,” said Kartik, putting his quill down and proceeding to reshuffle the parchments. He heard Aman walk up behind him.

“How far are you through it?” he asked.

It was the poisonous part of Kartik that answered then “By the grace of the gods hopefully I will finish it before you kindly kill me.” The malice did not stop there, however. “How  _ will _ you kill me? I have always wondered. Let it not be poison. Though poison will probably be the safest way to go, you could always tell them that I died of illness”

“Poison is a coward's weapon,” Aman’s voice was stern. “Rest assured it will be by my blade.”

“How will you explain it to the others?” asked Kartik. “There will be a lot of blood.”

Aman ignored his question “Are you quite done with the papers?”

Kartik shuffled them one more time, slowly, deliberately, rejoicing as Aman frowned in irritation at Kartik’s lack of speed. He placed the parchment inside the box with the other passages of his epic. He picked up the box and looked at Aman. 

“I suggest you wash your face,” he said. “It is covered in Gabru’s saliva.”

Aman’s jaw clenched, but he did not argue, he went to wash his face by the basin that stood on the other side of the room, Kartik went to get Gabru’s leash and attached it to his newly minted collar. It was then that the door to their room opened to reveal Sunaina.

“Mother,” Kartik greeted her coming forward to give her an embrace. 

One he pulled away she kissed his cheek. It was not the first time she had done it. But it never failed to remind Kartik of his own mother. It never failed to bring a smile to his face.

Aman greeted her, drying his face with a towel, she too kissed his cheek. 

“I came to wish you both luck for the ceremony,” she said, taking both their hands in hers, squeezing them. “I also wanted to give you my blessings. You have both made me proud beyond anything.”

Kartik wondered whether his own mother would be proud if she was here. He felt a rush of warmth at the thought of her proud grin, her kind eyes, and her voice.

“Thank you,” said Aman. “Is everything prepared. Will you-”

“You worry too much,” said Sunaina. “I will be fine. We will all be waiting for you in the courtyard to start the journey.” Her eyes feel on Gabru. “I see he has a new collar.”

“Aman was feeling uncommonly affectionate,” said Kartik, smiling as Aman scowled.

She noted Gabru’s leash and the box of poems in Kartik’s hands. “Let me take Gabru to where the other hunting dogs are and I will put the box with all your other possessions.”

“There is no need,” he assured her, though touched by her gesture. “I can give them to the guards-”

“I insist,” said Sunaina. “It’s always a pleasure to be with Gabru. And I promise not to read any of your poems until you let me.”

Kartik eventually handed both Gabru and his poems to his mother in law. Wishing them lucking she left their room. Kartik and Aman quitted it. Kartik had only occupied it two months but his heart was heavy, knowing he would not sleep here again.

Together they made their way to the tombs where the royal family of Mahan were traditionally buried. The tombs lay on the far side of the gardens, which were in full bloom. 

As Kartik passed through he saw a bush of red roses freshly trimmed. One of the roses struck his eye and he immediately realised why. It looked exactly like the rose he had given his own father after his mother’s death. An idea struck him. As quietly as he could he plucked it, thorns and all, and placed it inside his sleeve. 

He kept walking beside Aman. While Aman was usually piercing in his observations he did not seem to have noticed what Kartik had just done. He did not seem to notice much around him and Kartik wondered if it was because Shankar was buried in the tombs.

The ceremony was going to be a private affair. With only the kings and the priest or priestess of Shamsheer present.

Kartik had never actually been inside the tombs in Chandan. He had been shown where they were on his tour of the palace but he never had the courage to enter them. Shankar Tripathi, the man he had killed, the man who haunted his dreams, the man who was now his father by law was buried there. Going in those tombs would re-open wounds for both of them.

“Are you scared?” Kartik asked as they stood for a moment at the entrance. 

If Sunaina and Keshav were right Aman’s role in the Laal Panj ceremony was going to be much more trying than his own.

“No,” said Aman. 

But there was a quaver in his voice, feather-light, barely there. Kartik caught on to it anyway.  _ When did it come to this?  _ He wondered.  _ Knowing him as well as I know myself. _

He ventured to place a hand on Aman’s shoulder to provide him with some comfort, a semblance of support, to let him know that he was here with him. But in the end he thought against it.  _ He is going to the place where his father is buried. The touch of his father’s killer is the last thing he needs. _

Aman took a deep breath and entered. As always Kartik found himself following. The tombs were a network of interconnected tunnels and catacombs, with alcoves dug into them containing the stone of coffins of dead monarchs and their children. 

Each of the dead had their own statue carved from dark stone, the ruling monarchs differentiated by a flimsy circlet of gold places around their brows. The low lamp light gave the tombs a warm orange glow that was hellish, infernal. The circlets of gold at their brows seemed to smoulder, crisp and sharp like the death of a low burning flame.

Kartik saw the visages of the dead almost as if they were alive. He saw history pass before him, through a sneer on a queen’s cruel lips, through love in a king’s kind eyes, through swords raised and brandished high, through hands clutching flowers to their chests hoping for peace. They were etched here in stone, immortalised.

A priestess stood in the far end of the tomb, beside her was a high flame, burning, the physical manifestation of Shamsheer. She was mixing what looked to be bright red dye. The ghastly red handprints of the consorts before him were depicted in the wall behind her, flickering fiendishly. It looked like the remnants of a massacre. 

“Welcome kings,” she said once they approached. “I am Dira, representative of the goddess Shamsheer. Please remove your turbans, kalgis and shoes.”

They did as requested, with Kartik helping with Aman’s kalgi once again as he had done on the steps of Okhine’s temple all those years ago. Once they were finished they knelt before the Priestess of Shamsheer.

Dira came forward and placed the bowl of red dye between them. She knelt with them and joined her hands in prayer.

“Wes stand in these tombs, in the presence of Shamsheer,” she started. “In the presence of all the monarchs and their consorts from ages past.”

Kartik could feel a prickling at his neck. He could almost feel the ghost of Shankar Tripathi at his neck. That animal fear that had taken over him during the battle when he fought Shankar, the fear when his father used administered horrors onto his body, started to resurface. It took everything in his power to keep it at bay. To fight down the violent flutters that threatened to tear him apart.

Dira continued speaking.

“May they grant you leave to rule long by the side of our king.”

Kartik bowed his head in acceptance.  _ I will not rule long  _ he said to Shamsheer and to Aman’s ancestors  _ But I vow, here and now, to rule justly, to rule with love for as long as I can. I will try my best to earn a place by your side in the annals of history.  _

Dira now looked at Aman expectantly. Heeding her unspoken command he held out both his hands. She drew her crooked dagger. It glinted wildly in the firelight. Cruel and sharp like the goddess she served.

Then Dira sang. Her voice was low and sweet. Cloying. If honey had a sound Kartik was sure it would sound like Dira’s voice. But her song was filled with barbs and blood. For she sang of the legend behind the macabre tradition. It was called  _ The Lament of Avni _ .

The first King of Mahan, Gauri, had fallen in love with a blacksmith’s daughter Avni. Against reason, against tradition he had married her in these very tombs for the royal marriages of those times were held in tombs. On his wedding day, he had been killed by his own brothers, in the name of tradition. They believed he had turned his backs on all things holy.

The bride had held her husband as he died. Her hands had been covered in his blood. When Gauri’s breath had left him, Avni had taken up her husband's dagger, wedding gifts from her own father, and had killed all of Gauri’s brothers. After this slaughter, she had pressed her bloodied hands against these very walls and had claimed the throne in her husband’s name.

That was how the  _ The Lament of Avni  _ started, with Queen Avni professing her right to rule in her husband’s stead.

_ O people of Mahan, the land of the moon _

_ Let these bloody hands speak true  _

_ Let it be known that consort can rule _

_ As well as the monarch _

As Dira sang, in a well-practiced motion, she pierced the tips of Aman’s fingers, every one of them. The blood welled and ebbed until the fat droplets looked like smooth translucent red gems. Slowly it flowed into rivers. The Mahanite king did not wince, not even when the priestess squeezed each finger to let the small rivulets of blood fall more steadily into the bowl of red dye. The only sign that he may have been in pain was the slight tightening of his jaw. 

Kartik’s whole body seemed to tighten with him. He had almost forgotten about the rose in his sleeve until the thorns dug into his wrist. Aman was not the only one who was bleeding. 

_ Sacred blood has been spilled _

_ In the name of the gods _

_ Shame upon you brothers of the womb _

_ Your swords commit blasphemy _

_ He was the sacrament _

_ That burnishes the history _

_ He will burnish it still _

_ Though he is but mortal _

Once Dira had taken Aman’s blood, she mixed it into the dye with her dagger. When she was done she proffered the bowl to Kartik. He did what was expected of him. He dipped his palms into the mixture of dye and Aman’s blood. He had expected it to be cool but it was warm, like a still-beating heart. 

_ Aman’s blood.  _ It would not be the first time he had the blood of a Tripathi on his hands. 

Kartik rose with the honey-sweet sound of the dreadful lament to his ears, the dye and blood on his palms, and made his way to the wall. His own blood, from where the rose thorns had pierced him, now mingling with Aman’s and the dye. 

He stood before the wall where every consort of Mahan had once stood. Where Sunaina Tripathi had once stood as Shankar watched on.  _ I will try my best, I will try to make you proud.  _ He vowed. Slowly he pressed his hands against the wall. 

The slickness of the mixture could not disguise the grit of the walls. Nor could it calm the deathly fervour that coursed through him. Looking at the other handprints of all the other consorts before him, he felt another shiver run down his spine. For the first time, he understood the gravity of what he was doing. He was likely the first Akhtari to ever place his handprints beside the other consorts.

_ Mahan’s last consort.  _ He thought bitterly as he turned back to face the priestess and Aman.

He drew his hands back. The red would stain his hands for weeks. They will stain the walls for centuries.

The last lines of Avni's lament echoed throughout the tomb. 

_ My new paradise is littered _

_ With red handprints _

Shankar’s death, his blood perpetual on Kartik’s hands, had stained their marriage from the start. It seemed Aman must have been thinking the same thing for his eyes did not leave Kartik’s bloodied hands. Kartik could feel the weight of them as he took his place beside his husband again.

“May this union be blessed. May you rule long.”

The ritual had finished and the terrifying countenance that Dira had worn was now sloughed away to reveal her to be but a sweet-faced girl. She helped Aman bandage his fingers, so as to staunch the bleeding. Before she left she gave them both a smile.

“It has been a privilege to witness this,” she said quietly. “I know that you will both rule well and long for many years.”

It hurt to know that the people's hopes for this union were higher than the skies, it hurt to know otherwise but Kartik and Aman braved a smile and thanked her nonetheless. 

She left them, with the burning flames, the slow-burning lamps, the dead royals, and their glittering crowns. The two kings did not speak to each other. They sat kneeling for what felt like an eternity. Then Aman stood.

Kartik watched as he made his way to the closest tomb.  _ The tomb of his father.  _ Kartik realised.

The statue of Shankar Tripathi stood tall and proud with a sword strapped to his waist and a hand outstretched before him as if he was in the act of giving or receiving something. Aman seemed hesitant to approach him. Kartik tried to imagine what it would be like to be in your father’s tomb with your father’s killers. 

Aman knelt before his father’s statue and took his father’s stone-cold hand, where he should have taken his real one. He kissed it and pressed his forehead against it. A single tear ran down his cheek.

_ I caused him this.  _ Kartik said to himself.  _ I have no right to be here. I hope his killing me eases something of this pain. _

Aman did not stay for long, he got up abruptly and went to walk towards the exit of the tombs. Kartik remained and looked up at his father-in-law. He took out the rose from his sleeve. It was now stained red with the dye and his own blood. He placed it in Shankar’s outstretched hand, his own red-stained hands stood out to him the most at that moment.  _ They have been stained red since the day I killed him.  _

He could still remember how he had once proffered such a rose to his own father. He remembered his father had crushed the rose in his hands. Not caring for the thorns and the blood. He remembered how the thorns had scratched his own skin as his father and spent all his fury by beating Kartik repeatedly. 

_ At least this father will not beat me for it.  _ He thought sardonically.  _ For he is dead and stone.  _

He looked up at Shankar’s unseeing eyes and hoped somehow he hoped he would hear. “I will promise to protect him, for as long as I can. I can never repent for what I did to you. But I can do this much at least.”

As he turned to leave he was startled to see that Aman still stood in the entrance. He looked as if he wanted to say something to Kartik. Instead the tears that had welled in eyes now fell, he turned and walked off.

~~~

To Kaali’s satisfaction, Kartik and Aman did not speak to each for the first hour of the journey since.  _ The death of Shankar is still something that divides them.  _ It was something Kaali could use to drive them apart. He had hoped that the silence would remain but then as cheerily as ever Kartik made a joke which sent Aman almost falling off his horse in laughter. 

If Kaali knew how to probe Aman’s psyche as if it were his own, Kartik knew how to make him happy. 

They had set off on their journey to Akhtar by midday, with Bodha the new Lord of Chandan wishing them well and promising to look after and protect the city in their absence. 

Kaali was ill at ease. He did not like how intimate Kartik and Aman had become, he did not like the way they looked at each other. He remembered walking to the training arena witnessing their heated tangled kiss. 

_ Aman has no honour  _ he had concluded with disappointment  _ He disrespecting his father’s memory for a pair of pretty lips. He thinks with his cock more than his mind. _

He did not blame him though. He was young, his blood was hot. He was bound to fall prey to lust. Aman just needed to be reeled in.

Kaali looked over at the imposter, Rakesh, who was travelling under a heavily armed escort. He was loathe to admit it but this cutthroat was his only hope at succeeding. He remembered the first time he had met him all those months ago before any of this, on the night of Aman’s coronation.

He had caught the man as he had been walking away from the gardens after his meeting with Kusum. Kaali had taken him by the scruff of his neck and questioned roughly him until he found out who he was. The convicted murderer Rakesh. He had found out his plan with Kusum. He had been surprised at that. He never expected  _ her _ to be anything other than she claimed. 

Rakesh had begged for his life and Kaali had granted it, in exchange for his services. Rakesh was loyal to him as far as his green would go. He was a pathetic low life creature, a man that would rat out his closest friends in exchange for small comforts. Kaali despised him but he needed him now more than ever

By nightfall, they arrived at an old inn on the side of the Bastard’s Road. The soldiers and the servants were to make camp outside while the royal family and the advisors were to take rooms in the inn. As they unsaddled their horses Chaman turned to Kaali. 

“They should consider changing the name of the road,” said Chaman. “The Bastard’s Road is no longer applicable to today’s political climate.”

“What do we change it to?” Kaali questioned. 

Chaman pondered on this. “The Kings’ Road.”

Kaali did not like this one bit. The name spoke of unity. Having the marriage turn out affectionate was something he did not expect. Even now as the two kings had dismounted making their way towards where the camp was being set up in order to help with the preparations, Kartik had his arm around Aman’s shoulder, casually as if he had done this one hundred times before. 

“You should take this matter up with the kings themselves,” said Kaali. 

“I know you never liked the Akhtari,” said Chaman. “You and Shankar both. But I am glad you are supporting both of the kings in this.”

Chaman was right one front. Kaali had never liked the Akhtari and he never will. He detested them for as long as he could remember. 

Kaali’s parents had been slaughtered under the order of Kartik’s grandfather. Out of respect for his mother’s service to the state the King Deenanath Tripathi, Shankar’s father, had taken him in as his own son. Kaali had sworn revenge against the Akhtari for taking his parents from him.

When Deenanath had died, assassinated by Akhtari cutthroats, on a trip to one of the bordering villages. He and Shankar had sworn an oath in blood to destroy the bastards for once and for all. For years they had worked towards this goal. Conquering parts of Akhtar, bringing the other nation slowly to his knees, until the scum Parmesh and the whelp of a king, Kartik, had taken Shankar from him. He had lost his parents, his true parents, and Deenanath, and the man he considered a brother to the Akhtari. He had every reason to detest them.

He had hoped to make Aman a good and strong king like his father. He had hoped Aman would fulfill the dream that he and Shankar had once spoke of, the dream that was written in blood. He had always seen Aman as a son, but now-

He said none of this Chaman but merely smiled “My duty is to the realm. You know this.”

It was not a lie. The realm would be better off without Kartik and his kind. 

After a night of singing, joking and drinking, in the inn they all retired to their beds. All except Kaali himself. In the dead of the night, he went to Rakesh’s room. There was much to discuss. 

The guards had let him through, suspecting nothing of Kaali’s intentions. He had expected himself to be subjected to waking Rakesh up. To his surprise, the other man seemed to have been expecting him. He sat alert on his bed sharpening his knife.

“You seem well,” said Kaali, observing the grim look on his face.

Rakesh looked up at him “I am sick of all this waiting. Tell me what must be done.”

“We are playing a patient game,” said Kaali. “I am afraid you must subject yourself to more waiting.”

“Old man, I am sick of you.”

_ And I you  _ thought Kaali not without disgust. But he smiled at Rakesh, he knew exactly what was bothering him.

“Kusum is not going anywhere,” he assured. “Once you do as I say, you will both be well settled in a keep, with all the riches in the world.”

“And my name will be cleared,” Rakesh demanded. 

“And that too,” said Kaali. 

“Did you see how she was looking at the other woman Rajini?” Rakesh sighed, there was something pathetic about the way he said it. 

Kaali felt no sympathy for his plight. He did not blame Kusum for no longer having feelings for him. He did not understand what she saw in him in the first place. Rakesh did not seem to trust the woman he claimed to be the love of his life. And with her newfound love for Rajni Kaali himself was not sure where her loyalties lay. 

“Focus on the plan,” said Kaali, unable to hide his disgust. “Your Kusum is a clever girl. It was she who thought of placing the blame on Akhtar is it not?”

“Yes, but...why do you not trust me to tell her anything if you are so confident she is on my side.”

“To protect her,” said Kaali. “The less people know the better. Now let us go over the logistics of it once more.”

* * *

Songs:

[Aaaj Ibadaat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvYNKUqMK_g) from Bajirao Mastani

[Bleeding Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gJVzv7yt1M) by Leona Lewis and [this cover ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmeiMzPB9QI&app=desktop) same song

[Days Gone Quiet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLLDeGoxdTw) by Lewis Capaldi

[My Blood](https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=my+blood+ellie+goulding) by Ellie Goulding


	34. Honorbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Mehan for helping me with Nasireh's character. They are my favourite OC I hope you like them as much as I do.

When you speak of honour

Do not let it become a disease

Give honour where honour is due

But never give it where you please

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

They spent a total of twelve days on the Bastard’s Road to Khorshid. It should have been seven but they were slowed down by various smaller noble families who insisted that they share a meal with them. It was Mahanite custom, to offer any travellers food and shelter for the night, a custom that Kartik revealed was also shared in Akhtar. But Aman suspected under the pretense of customs there was curiosity too, to gauge the kind of man their new king was. 

And Kartik did not disappoint. During the course of their meals Kartik managed to charm his way into their hearts. So much so that there were moments when Aman forgot that their marriage was a facade and felt proud to call him his husband.

It was a royal progress of sorts. There was a larger one planned, after their two months in Shafaq, a royal progress that will allow them to travel through the whole of the combined nations, meeting each and every lord. Their advisors were already planning various routes and seeing to the supplies that were needed. Only Kartik and Aman knew the truth. 

There will be no royal progress. The whole of the two nations will be steeped in mourning by then. Often Aman wondered whether he too would mourn Kartik when the time came. He would have liked to have said  _ no, never _ . Yet whenever he saw Kartik’s smile, one thought pervaded his mind,  _ it would be a shame if I never saw it again. _

To everyone’s almost undisguised delight, as soon as they reached the region of Balkar to stay the night in Kashatr before entering what was formerly Akhtari territory, Mandhav was sent to travel south to Lord Dasmesh’s old lands. 

Kaali was to escort him there along with a retinue of spies disguised as servants. Aman had entrusted Kaali to this task for he knew Kaali would establish the system of spies perfectly in the old keep. 

Their journey had finally ended here in the grassy plains just outside Khorshid. Aman remembered the first time he touched Akhtari soil. It had felt just like the soil in Mahan.  _ Perhaps we are not so different after all.  _

By midmorning they would be inside the city walls, leading the procession through a cheering crowd. That is if they found Kartik on time. 

During their twelves days of travel Kartik would often disappear only to be discovered in the most unusual places, writing and working on his epic. Once Aman even found Kartik hanging upside down from the branch of a tree. Aman did not fault the other king; Kartik had undertaken an enormous task to be completed in, now, less than four months. He did not blame him for seeking solace whenever he could, in fact Aman often hindered the searches for Kartik. It was the least he could do. 

This morning however was an inconvenient time to go missing. The procession was to start soon and Kartik was nowhere to be seen. Despite the inconvenience, Aman had decided not to participate in the search. His time, he felt, would be better spent by making sure their horses, Sapir and Yaara were ready. 

As he made his way to where they had tied up the mare and the stallion the night before and noted a figure sitting on one of the horses. 

Cautiously he approached it only to find it to be Kartik, sitting on the horse, limbs carelessly splayed. Writing once again. 

They had opted for red and silver clothing for today, to honour the roots of Akhtar. Where Aman wore a silver sherwani with red embroidered roses and a red dupatta, Kartik was wearing an inversion of his clothes, red-based with silver highlights. It reminded him of a muted version of the regalia he had worn when they met as kings at Okhine’s temple.

He was not sitting on  _ any _ horse however. It was Sapir, the white stallion that Akhtar had unintentionally gifted to Mahan. Aman felt an amused smile rise to his lips for Kartik was sitting backward on the saddle. Aman had half a mind to send Sapir galloping off, but it would not bode well for him to harm or potentially kill Kartik as of now.

Kartik did not seem to have noticed Aman’s presence. He never did when he was writing. He was biting his lip, brows furrowed in concentration, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. Aman found that he loved observing Kartik in those moments. The exuberant energy that seemed to shine from him, the energy bloomed like a newly birthed sun, was focused and distilled in this expression of intense concentration. 

“We have been scouring the whole countryside for you,” said Aman looking up at him. 

Kartik, startled, almost dropped his quill and the pieces of parchment. He managed to save them from falling into the dirt below. He looked down at Aman “Why did you miss me that much?”

“The procession is about to start,” said Aman. “We can’t very well enter the city without you. And you are sitting on  _ my  _ horse. Backward.”

Kartik’s eyes travelled down and it seemed he had only just noticed Sapir beneath him. After the bout of confusion he shrugged his shoulders, his eyes sparkled with mischief and Aman knew that he would have a difficult time convincing Kartik to come down. 

“ _ Your  _ horse?” the Akhtari king questioned. “If I recall correctly it was  _ I _ who gifted it to you.”

“Keyword is gift,” said Aman. “It means it is no longer yours.”

“It  _ is _ yours,” agreed Kartik. “But we are married now. What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. Is that not how marriages work?”

“Get off my horse Kartik.”

“Why should I?” the corners of Kartik’s lips curled to match the mischief in his eyes.

Aman sighed “The procession through Khorshid is about to start, surely you would be excited to see your home city again.”

For a moment Kartik’s smile was less mischievous. For a moment it was beautiful, stunning in its longing, dangerous in its wistfulness. But it only lasted a moment. His devilish stubborn grin returned. It was clear he had no intention of moving.

“Get off,” Aman insisted. 

“Make me” Kartik challenged.

Aman rose to it. Hooking his foot onto the stirrup he leaped up onto the saddle so that he now sat facing Kartik.

“Get off or I will push you.”

Before Aman could register anything Kartik reached forward and clutched the red dupatta at his neck and pulled him in so close that their noses were touching. To keep himself from falling forward into Kartik’s chest Aman clasped both of his thighs. Even under the silver and red sherwani Aman could feel hardened muscle. 

He wondered for a moment what it would be like to touch them without all the layers of silk, to feel his bare skin against his fingers. But these thoughts were dangerous, especially with Kartik so near. Kartik’s legs, to both Aman’s pleasure and disappointment, were now hooked around his, ensuring that if Aman tried to push him off they would fall together.

“Do it then,” Kartik urged. “Push me off.”

“I did not know you were so eager to die,” Aman countered.

“I’m only expediting the inevitable.”

Aman felt a sense of guilt at those words. He was loath to admit it but, the more time he spent with Kartik the more he found he  _ wanted  _ Kartik to be there.  _ He’s like a friend to me _ . He looked down at Kartik’s hand. They were still stained red from the Laal Panj ceremony. 

_ A friend?  _ A part of him questioned.  _ A friend whose hands were stained red long before this ceremony. He killed your father and you dare call him a friend. _

“We could always enter the city like this,” suggested Kartik, oblivious to where Aman’s thoughts had headed. 

He pulled Aman’s dupatta, their foreheads were now pressed together, legs entwined, and though Aman had long found his balance, he found that his hands refused to leave Kartik’s thighs.

“You’ve gone completely mad,” Aman stated. 

“Come now, they will sing of how we entered the city on one horse and as one soul. They will sing of how our love was so great we could not bear to be apart.”

“More like they will lament your stupidity and sing of how the Akhtari king fell off the horse and dashed his head against the paved streets of Khorshid.”

Kartik laughed and Aman found himself smiling. 

“You should consider taking up writing,” Kartik suggested. “Your descriptions are very vivid.”

For a moment he was content at just looking at Kartik. Looking at his large stupid, gorgeous smile. Look at his mischief filled eyes.  _ Could I really bring myself to kill something so beautiful?  _ He wondered.  _ Why did the gods make you this beautiful? It would feel like a sin to destroy you. _

Kartik’s eyes travelled to the direction of the city. Then Aman understood why he was stalling.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“A little,” Kartik admitted.    
  


“Tell me,” asked Aman. He found Kartik could be very frank when prompted. 

“It will be the last time I see it,” he answered quietly, his roguish expression long gone. “I love Khorshid. I will miss it and that’s why I think I’m not sure I’m ready to see it one last time, only for it to be ripped away from me. It feels...”

He trailed off. 

“Cruel.” Aman finished Kartik’s sentence for him.

It was one thing for Aman, leaving Chandan. He will miss it certainly but he knew he would come back one day. Kartik however, will never return to Khorshid again.

Their eyes met then. They were locked again in the illicit region where desire seemed to overrule judgement, principles, and the very gods themselves. To kiss him would be callous. To not would be a sin. Two evils stood before Aman Tripathi and he was not which one was the lesser. 

“Gods be good!” exclaimed a voice. They turned to see Rajini looking up at them. “You could save all this for when you actually arrive in the city. On top of the poor horse too. The procession is about to begin.”

“You should hear yourself speak,” retorted Kartik. “May I remind you  _ why _ we were late for leaving Lord Varu’s estate?”

Rajini coloured at the memory. Aman could not help but let out a small chuckle. It was not always that his cousin could be turned into a stuttering blushing mess. He admired Kusum wholeheartedly for that alone. 

“What if I do not want to get off?” said Kartik.

“Then I will drag you to your horse by your ears.” 

She sounded like she meant it so Kartik disentangled himself from Aman, not before he placed a kiss on his hand, in the space between his knuckles. Courtly, polite yet somehow intimate. Aman felt the blood rush to his cheeks. 

Kartik leaped off the Sapir and made his way to his own mare, Yaara, without an explanation. Aman did not want one. Explanations could not cure what he felt. The answers Kartik would give could not solve the questions that raged through him.

Even as they rode up to the head of the procession he could still feel where Kartik’s lips had been. His whole body ached for he knew exactly where else he wanted them to be. Aman looked up at the city and willed his mind to not think of Kartik.

Khorshid lay brilliant on a hill on the great glass plane. Resplendent in its whitewashed simplicity and its large, shallow turquoise domes and great tall jutting spiral towers. It was wholly different from Chandan, yet somehow equally as beautiful.

The gates of the city opened and their ears were assaulted by the excited cheers of the crowd waiting to greet their king and the man who was his husband. 

The kings urged their horses forwards and Aman saw everything that Kartik had described about Khorshid in his late-night ramblings when he was feeling homesick. The sharbat maker’s stall. The scent of cooked meats. The little children racing around streets with not a care for the world. He saw the guards in their livery of red and silver. He even saw the little avenue that led to the markets. 

As he looked at each and every place in Khorshid he could hear Kartik’s words in his ears as he spoke of the city he loved so well. 

He knew then and there that when Kartik died he would not be able to walk these streets again. He could barely manage to do so now, with Kartik still by his side. 

Aman turned to Kartik and held out his hand. Kartik smiled. His fingers slipped into his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Without forethought without hesitation. Just like that night all those months ago in the temple, under Okhine’s gaze.

Aman raised their hands high, just as Kartik had once done the day they announced their engagement and on the day they entered Chandan. He raised them high enough for all to see. 

~~~

It felt good to be home again, in familiar streets, in the familiar palace that was his home. But there was a sadness in Kartik too, knowing this was the last time he was to see his city. The city he loved so well.  _ Will they bury me here?  _ He wondered again and again.  _ Or in Shafaq? _

After a day of showing Aman the palace grounds and the palace itself, a celebratory banquet was held in their honour. Here Aman was to be introduced to the various nobles that inhabited Khorshid. 

Aman was wearing a curious expression on his face. He looked around the throne room in absolute wonder, as if he had never seen anything half as beautiful as this. Kartik found himself wondering why. While the walls of Khorshid’s palace were not plain, with its gold leaf and magnificent pastel marble mosaics, it was certainly not as opulent or as glimmeringly devastating as the rooms in Chandan with their stained-glass imitations of jewels encrusted into the very walls. 

Aman’s curiosity was only matched by those of the nobles. They regarded the Mahanite king and his family with a certain fascination that was mingled with the characteristic suspicion for all foreigners. Where the common people were delighted the nobles were either coolly civil with barbed remarks, or were overly zealous with their praise. 

Aman often matched their slights with his own sharp tongue, remarkably civil with the zealous and generous to those who were genuine. He did this all with a winning smile and a sharp discerning gaze. Kartik could not help but feel proud to call this man his husband.

“Be wary of Lady Gokce,” Kartik whispered in his ear, as they finished speaking to the lady in question. 

“Why?” Aman had asked. “She seems kindly enough.”

“Let me rephrase, it is not  _ her _ you should be wary of but rather her lamprey stew.”

Aman let out a half-amused smile “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“I have half a mind to let you try it.”

“If I am to be subjected to eating it you are coming with me.”

Gods it was so easy to fall into the ease of friendship.  _ Desire aside, I see him as a friend.  _ Whether Aman thought the same was not a notion that Kartik dared entertain. But he listened to his laughter nonetheless, listened to the sound of his voice, watched the steady growing gleam in his eyes and revelled in it.

“Is that all the nobles?” Aman asked. 

“I think so,” admitted Kartik. “Have some wine or something to eat. It is not often we get reprieves during banquets.”

Aman grinned “I quite like your pastries.”

“I know, I saw you taking three when you thought no one was looking.” by lightly touching the small of his back Kartik led Aman to the table where the pastries were laid out. “You are a terrible thief.”

“You are utterly unobservant, I took five.”

“You are not as terrible as I thought then,” he conceded. 

Who would have guessed that King Aman of the noble house of Tripathi, with his heart of ice and his piercing gaze that put great storms to shame, had a sweet-tooth? He found the trait endearing more than anything. Kartik made a mental note to ask the chef to make more of the spiced pistachio and honey ones during their dinners. They were the ones that Aman seemed to prefer. 

As he watched Aman decide between the one with the rose paste or the one with cashews, the doors of the hall were split wide open to reveal a figure Kartik knew well. 

It was Parmesh’s child, Nasireh. They strode in with their characteristic swagger, made all the more arresting by the fact that they were very tall, almost seven feet in height, dwarfing even Parvaaz. Though their immense height disguised it, Nasireh was powerfully built. Once Kartik had seen them bend a steel bar with their bare hands. 

Kartik let out a smile. Nasireh was exactly as they had been a year ago when Kartik had last seen them, with the same clear cut elven features and fire in their light hazel eyes. 

They seemed worn out, from days of travelling no doubt, but their armour was as resplendent as ever, gleaming silver with a red sash at their waist. Nasireh’s hair, long dark curls, was let loose with their characteristic twin braids, woven with gold, glinting at their shoulders.

_ Old Parmesh used to braid their hair with gold  _ Kartik remembered with a certain fondness. He himself had tried to grow his hair to Nasireh’s length once, when they were children. He had wanted Parmesh, an unmarried single father to three children, to braid his hair too. 

Kartik had not been able to manage it. He had given up as soon as his hair had grown to the length of his shoulders. 

In frustration Kartik had shorn his locks off. His mother Lekisha, amused by his dismal attempt at a haircut, had assured him he was as handsome as ever so Kartik had not felt the need to wear a cap to hide his baldness. He had been seven years old then, Nasireh had been five.

“Kartik,” said Nasireh, grinning, taking him up in their arms in an embrace that lifted him off his feet momentarily. “I have not seen you for a year and you bring home a husband.”

“And you bring home no one,” said Kartik observed drily but not without a smile embracing them back. 

He never usually felt small standing next to anyone. Not even with those who were taller than him. But with Nasireh it was an entirely different story. 

“I’m not entirely sure how you did it,” Nasireh pulled away from Kartik. “If I recall correctly you used to piss the bed every night.”

“That was when I was two years old,” Kartik protested hotly. “You were not even born then.”

Nasireh grinned again and turned to Aman “Are you going to introduce me to your husband, Kartik, or do I have to do everything myself?”

Kartik rolled his eyes in mock annoyance but relented “Aman this is Nasireh, child of Parmesh, my captain of the guard, second in command to the Akhtari army after myself. I would count them as one of my most loyal advisors if they actually gave me good advice. They have just arrived from Halep after staying with their sisters for a year. Nasireh this is Aman, my husband, the king of not only Mahan and Akhtar but also my heart. In short, he is the love of my life.”

His words rang in his ears and he found that they were one of the truest things he had said. On his side at least.

“It’s good to meet you,” said Aman with a smile. 

“It’s a pleasure on my part too,” Nasireh assured. “You have become the most popular topic of discussion on Akhtar. It’s good to meet you in person, though you are shorter than I expected.”

“Compared to you,” said Kartik. “Everyone is short.”

“Nonetheless,” started Nasireh, taking Aman’s hand in his own. “You have exceeded all other expectations. I am honoured to call you my king.”

Nasireh went down on one knee and kissed Aman’s hand. The Akhtari gesture of honour but also of love. For the first time Kartik noticed the stunning height difference between the two. Aman was never particularly tall to begin with, next to Nasireh he looked almost a child. Even now as Nasireh was on one knee they were only barely shorter than Aman was, standing upright. 

It would have amused Kartik were it not for the burgeoning jealousy that curdled the moment. Nasireh had kissed Aman’s hand with ease where it had taken Kartik all the courage he had to do the same this morning. 

To make it all the more painful Aman seemed abashed by Nasireh’s gesture. There was also a sort of admiring gleam in his eyes. A wistful smile. A smile that soured all the love that Kartik had felt at Nasireh’s arrival. A smile that made Kartik think that poisonous thought,  _ I wish they never came _ . Nasireh rose.

“I understand wholly why Kartik married you,” Nasireh continued. “I am yet to determine why you had even considered an engagement let alone married him.”

Aman regarded Nasireh with a small smile and simply said “My reasons were entirely political.”

The words pierced Kartik more than they should have. Of course the rational part of him knew the marriage was political. But that had not stopped Kartik’s heart from falling in love. That did not make Aman’s words any less painful. Nasireh, unaware of their truth, laughed. 

“Those are very attractive reasons,”

“How are your sisters?” asked Kartik abruptly.

“Spitting fire and pissing vinegar as usual.” Nasireh rolled their eyes. “They send their regards and their congratulations. Banaz will be coming to Khorshid by the time of the Bahaduri.”

“The Bahaduri?” asked Aman.

“It is the-” 

“Do not tell him,” said Kartik, remembering how no one had deigned to tell him about the Phulantari when he was in Chandan.

“My lips are sealed,” promised Nasireh. “Is your husband the only one who arrived from Mahan?”   
  
“The whole family is here,” said Aman. “We will be relocating the capital of both nations to Shafaq.”

Nasireh nodded “Wonderful when are we leaving.”

“ _ We _ ?  _ You _ are staying here. I want you to be Lord of Khorshid,” said Kartik. “There is no one I trust more.”

“Which is why it is important for me to remain your captain of the guard. You need someone you can trust at all times.” Nasireh smiled. “You know me Kartik, I can not rule as you or my sisters can. Give Banaz the lordship, my place is at your side.”

“Very well then,” Kartik conceded. “I will speak to Banaz. As of now I should introduce you to new additions to my family.”

_ Family _ .  _ My family.  _ The words made him feel something.  _ Saying _ them made him feel something. Something he had not deigned to let himself feel. An emotion he did not want to sort out just yet.  _ Family.  _ He let the word course through him, warm and true like the blood they did not share.

Kartik and Aman slowly introduced Nasireh to all the other Tripathi’s. He knew however the person Nasireh truly wanted to meet. The woman who had killed their father. Nasireh spoke to them all with their usual charm and laughter, making sly barbed remarks at Kartik whenever they could. They had taken an especial liking, surprisingly to Champa. It was discovered they both had a passion for embroidery.

Kartik introduced Rajini last. She had her arm around Kusum’s waist as she talked with one of the lords of Akhtar. Now that Mandhav was gone they were starting to be more open about their relationship in public, which Kartik was glad of. At least someone found happiness in the midst of all this. 

The lord seeing Kartik, Aman and the imposing figure of Nasireh bowed their head and left the five of them to speak.

“Nasireh,” started Kartik, the tired formula of introductions now slick on his tongue. “This is Rajini Tripathi, daughter of Chaman and Champa. The Commander-in-Chief of Mahan. This is Kusum Acharya, daughter of Lord Acharya, beloved of the Queen mother and the woman I now call sister.”

Nasireh’s eyes flickered towards Kartik. They knew what it meant for Kartik to call any woman  _ sister.  _ The word had been sullied long ago by the tiny body of a baby girl, the princess Ofira, Kartik’s dead sister.

“This is-” Kartik was about to introduce Nasireh, but they interrupted him.

“I am Nasireh. You might have known my father, Parmesh.”

The name of Parmesh sent a flicker of guilt through Rajini’s face. “I did. I met him once I killed him. Does that not bother you?”

Nasireh considered her “Did he die fighting?”

“Till his last breath,”

Kartik could remember the way he had pushed him aside in the battle. They way he protected him. The way he had died for it. He could never forget it. Neither could he forget the grief of Nasireh and their sisters.

“He died fighting for his king at the hands of an honourable enemy then. Do not think I grudge you. It is an honour to have met you.” said Nasireh. At his words Aman’s eyes flickered to Kartik as if considering his own vengeance, they turned away as quickly as they had fallen on him. Nasireh continued speaking. “My father achieved more than I can ever hope for in his death.”

“I rather you would not die fighting for me,” said Kartik. He could not have Nasireh’s death on his conscience.

“Who said I needed to die fighting for  _ you _ ? We have two kings now.” they gave Aman a mischievous smile. “I’d rather die for the better-looking one.”

Aman’s smile though slow was genuine, as if it were the first time someone other than his mother had called him beautiful.

“When is the Khan Khardesh?” asked Nasireh. “Have you told Aman about the Khan Khardesh?”

“I have in fact explained the details of the Akhtari consort ceremony to the consort of Akhtar, I am not so incompetent” said Kartik. He had explained the details to Aman during their journey. “We are holding it tomorrow night did you not know?”

“I have spent five days travelling,”

“That is no excuse,” said Kusum with a smile. “We have spent  _ twelve _ days.”

Nasireh “Twelve?”   
  


“Yes,” the way Aman said it told Kartik the weariness had finally gotten to him. 

“I think it’s time we retired.” said Kartik. He knew he had said the right thing when Aman gave him a grateful smile. “The journey has been tiring and the ceremony is tomorrow after all.”

“Let me say goodnight to mother,” said Aman. “Or she will wonder where we went.”

“I will come with you,” said Kartik. He too had gotten used to saying goodnight to Sunaina. 

Aman went to where his mother stood with Chaman and Champa. Before Kartik could follow however he felt Nasireh’s hand clasping his own, holding him back.

“Do not think I did not know you were staring daggers into me.” Nasireh said in a low voice. “You know I mean nothing by it. I never do. You know I would never-”

“I know,” Kartik interrupted. “I know, it’s just that…” he was not sure what to say. He thought for a moment for the right words, they came to him like an epiphany. “Look after him when I am gone. Promise me.”

“You mean  _ if _ . As captain of your guard it is my duty to protect you. I would like to think I am doing a good job.”

“Just promise me Nasireh.”

“I promise,” there was a pause. “You truly love him then?”   
  


_ Yes.  _ The words stuck in Kartik’s throat.  _ Yes, a thousand times yes.  _ He could not bring himself to say it. He let Nasireh interpret it the way they wanted to.

“I knew it,” Nasireh smiled. “I have not seen you this taken by another man before.”

“You are forgetting Arjit, Osman, Mehmed…”

“I did not forget them,” Nasireh’s hazel eyes bore into his own. “You loved them in your own way I know, but this is different. It’s not as juvenile. It’s not a pretty whimsical fancy that can be crushed like fine porcelain. It seems to be made of steel.” 

_ Or shattered glass.  _ He did not say it however he listened to Nasireh speak.

“You have grown from the man I knew a year ago,” said Nasireh. “You have become a little more mature, a little more disciplined.”

_ We all grow up more than we ought to when we know death is near Nasireh.  _ But he did not say it instead he said “I almost drank a whole horn Eskabadi beer a few days after my wedding, I do not think I have matured all that much.”

“I do not believe you.”   
  
“Rajini can tell you all about it, so can Devika and Parvaaz.” he thought about the way Aman’s eyes had shone when he looked at Nasireh.  _ Perhaps it would be better if I let love blossom between them instead of being the selfish fool that I am _ . “Come take a meal with Aman and me the day after tomorrow. We have much to talk about. You play the harp, he plays the sitar. You will enjoy talking music with him, you have similar tastes. And you should grace us with a performance.”

“Only if you sing with us, now go bid your mother-in-law farewell and pray you do not fumble during the ceremony tomorrow.”

Kartik rejoined Aman. They bid their farewells and made their way to their room. The room that had been solely Kartik’s ever since he grew out of the nursery. Now it belonged to Aman too. It felt almost like sharing a part of his heart with him.

When they were inside, Aman’s tired eyes took a moment to study the room. There was a sharp intake of breath at the sight of it. 

“How do you like Akhtar?” Kartik asked.

“It’s beautiful,” Aman admitted with a rapidity that was almost boyish. Gone was his sternness if only for a moment. He turned to one of the doors that lead to an antechamber and opened it to see the baths. “Is this where you get your habit of taking baths on stressful nights from?”

“Yes,” said Kartik. “There’s a system of aqueducts that work beneath the grounds since we do not have a river nearby as you do in Chandan. They transport clean water here, my great-grandmother had these baths built. She was said to be very scrupulous when it came to hygiene.”

“As we all should be.” Aman was staring at the waters of the baths with wonder. “It’s like having the river in your rooms and you could go wading whenever you like.”

“The only disadvantage being that it is shallow, and thus I never learned to swim.”

“There is a lake near Shafaq, so they say, I could teach you to swim if you would like.”

He knew it would be spiteful of him to remind Aman that he would not really need to know how to swim. Dead men do not need to save themselves from drowning. So he acquiesced. It would give him something to focus on in his final months.

Aman’s eyes rose from the water and turned to the wall on the other side of the baths “Your mosaics are especially beautiful.”

“They are not as brilliant as your stained glass encrusted walls.”

“I prefer these. The way you render a whole from little pieces that are often not unconnected. I think it is amazing.”

“Perhaps we should make a mosaic of stained glass when we go to Shafaq?” suggested Kartik. “A perfect combination of our two cultures.”

“A glass mosaic? Is that not in the prophecy? Would it not be dangerous to tempt fate like that?”

“I did not take your for a superstitious person.” Kartik 's eyes fell on Aman’s sword. “Even if it does come to fruition you will be the one who has to deal with it. Not me.”

Aman’s fascination started to wane. Kartik knew then he should not have said that. He sought another topic of discussion. One he had been afraid to discuss lest it confirmed what he thought. But he knew he had to make his feelings clear to Aman on this matter. 

“How about Nasireh?” he asked, trying to sound lively. “What did you think of them?”

“I like them,” said Aman. “I like them very much.”

_ And me?  _ A part of Kartik asked.  _ Do you like me?  _ He knew the answer to that already.

“They are one of the best people I know.” continued Kartik. “I’ve known them ever since I was four years old when Parmesh adopted them and their sisters. They were only two and already almost my height.”

“They were children of the gods?” questioned Aman. 

Kartik nodded “Parmesh never married, but he had always wanted children. He was also Lord of Halep in his own right. He needed heirs.”

Aman nodded taking this all in. “And they have been by your side ever since?”

“Almost always, whenever they were in Khorshid.” Kartik paused. “They became the captain of my guard only two years ago and there is no one better for the job. They are kind, brave, charming and very good looking.”

He stressed the last few words, waiting for Aman’s reaction.

“Why are you telling me this?” Aman asked. “I have eyes. I can see all this. It is as if you are recommending them to me.” then the realisation seemed to hit him. “Are you?”

Kartik found it in himself to meet Aman’s eyes. “I realise this marriage may make you feel as if you are honour bound to me in some way. It would be selfish of me to expect you to hold off your desires and keep to your oath of fidelity when there is no pretense for it.”

“Are you giving me permission to fuck someone out of wedlock?” asked Aman in that direct manner of his. He seemed angry and even hurt at the suggestion. “Will you be doing the same?”

“No,” the answer was resolute. How could he lay with another man when the one he wanted was right before him?

“Then is your opinion of me so low that I would expect me not to keep an oath where you will? Do you think me dishonourable?”

“No,” Kartik could feel the anger in Aman’s words. “I think you are the most honourable man I know.”

Aman regarded him, his dark angry gaze, the black storm that were his eyes raked over Kartik.  _ How could I let it come to this? Letting his gaze alone ravage me? _

“Then you know that I will not break my oaths.”

“I only meant that it is unfair for you.”

Aman did not answer him.

“If it satisfies your honour to stay loyal to me in this sham of a marriage, then so be it.” started Kartik. “Tell me that you will at least marry again when I am gone.”

Aman’s eyes flickered up at him “You may not know this but in Mahan marriages do not happen unless you are completely sure that they are the person you are to bind yourself to forever. Marriages in Mahan, therefore, are rare among the common people. Divorces are rarer still. Marrying again after your partner dies is seen as a betrayal. I will never marry again. I do not intend to.”

  
It took a moment for Kartik to register it, for the gravity of this marriage for Aman to truly sink in.  _ I ruined his life once by killing his father. Here I ruin it again with this marriage. He will never know to love, to truly love and it is all my doing.  _

* * *

Song for this chapter for when Aman is looking at Khorshid is [Cornelia Street](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VikHHWrgb4Y) by Taylor Swift. Esp the chorus. Also on the topic of Taylor Swift, imma do a little self-plug here. I made a karman edit for [illicit affairs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpbfbPsqpLY). It is pain.


	35. A Sword of Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rushed this chapter sorry lads. There are many typos and the pacing is a lil off probably, forgive me. I wanted to get my update up on time so I wouldn't feel guilty. 
> 
> Also apologies to @smzs_fanfics_fanpage though I'll try and get that songfic done by Monday, (its halfway done anway I did not anticipate today being so busy).

Our tale echoes with those of the past

But somehow it is not the same

History rhymes, it does not repeat

And our futures they will not claim

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Rajini woke the feeling of soft lips against her forehead. Her eyes opened to see Kusum standing above her. Her first instinct was to question her presence. Rajini did not like having anyone else in her room as she slept. An unwanted habit from having fought many wars. But then she found, after a few moments of studying her lover, she did not particularly care. 

Kusum had not changed out of her sleeping clothes, her light shift obscured by a large grey robe that was tied to her waist. That did nothing however to disguise the fact that her shift was a little large for her, slipping slightly off her left shoulder, allowing Rajini a pleasurable view of her collarbones and the swell of her breasts. Besides the way the morning light shone on her, made it look like she had freshly descended from heaven.

If Rajini got to wake up to this every morning she would not mind having someone else in her room.

“You’re up early,” she remarked groggily.

“You merely woke up late,” said Kusum. 

“I never wake up late,”

“Try telling that to the sun.” 

Rajini turned to see that the sun had long risen. She turned back to Kusum “Am I late for anything?”  
  
“No, the ceremony is in the afternoon,” said Kusum. “I just met Kartik, he said duties were called off until tomorrow. He has to prepare and so does Aman. The ceremony is very complicated, so I have heard.”

“What was it called again? Khan Kharlesh?”  
  
“Khan Khardesh,” Kusum corrected. “It means 'steel bond' in Akhtari.”

“You seem to be more knowledgeable in Akhtari than I am.” Rajini regarded her. “And I grew up learning it.”

“My father’s castle was on the border, remember,” said Kusum. “We had a few Akhtari stragglers come in. I learned the finer points of the language there.”

Rajini smiled as she sat up. “Do you need to be with Aunt Sunaina?”  
  
“Not until the afternoon,” said Kusum, she sat beside Rajini and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “I thought I would spend the morning with you.”

“A wise decision,” agreed Rajini.

He placed an arm around Kusum’s waist and drew her in. Only a few weeks ago Rajini had dared not touch her, out of fear. She had thought Kusum too beautiful, too unearthly to be profaned by her own hands. She marveled at the ease at which she could do all this now. 

There were still times when she wondered why Kusum would even consider being with her. But those moments were becoming rare. The other woman’s hands, her eyes, her lips were persuasive in their worship. 

She placed a kiss on Kusum’s forehead simply because she could now, without fear. When she kissed it however she noticed that her brow was creased.

“Something is troubling you,” said Rajini. “What is it?”

Kusum’s eyes, those kind large eyes that Rajini loved so well, looked up at her imploringly.

“Say if someone you loved, someone you loved with all your heart and soul, turned out to be someone you did not think they were. What would you do?”

Rajini regarded her unsure of what to make of the question. Then the realisation came.

“Is this about Mandhav?” she held Kusum closer to her. 

“You could say that.”

Rajini took a few minutes to collect her thoughts on this matter. She finally had an answer. 

“I think I would tell myself that I do not love them. For if I did not truly know who they were how could I truly love them?”

Kusum was silent. Rajini had hoped that the answer would cheer her. But it had not. In fact, it seemed to add more sadness to her plight. Rajini wished she had said nothing at all. But she knew other ways in which she could lighten Kusum’s mood. 

She kissed the bridge of her nose, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Then finally, just her mouth. She let the kiss linger, softly at first, then she added more intensity. Kusum matched her intent.

When they pulled away, breathless, Rajini said, “I know _you_ though. I know you in this lifetime and the next. Do not doubt it.”

When Kusum smiled Rajini knew she had said the right thing. 

~~~

Devika made her way to where Nasireh usually kept their chambers. They had promised, last night, to show her some of the gifts that Hesara sent for them from Halep. It had been a year since she had seen them and she found that she had missed Nasireh’s easy confidence and their laugh.

Nasireh was two years younger than she or Kartik but they had been a constant companion of theirs since they first arrived. They did not always stay for long in Khorshid, even though Parmesh had been a permanent fixture in court. Parmesh, she suspected, had not wanted his children to be embroiled in court politics. 

It did not work, however. Both his girls, Banaz and Hesara were adept politicians in Halep and whenever they were in court. And while Nasireh was far from a politician they had taken up a position as captain of the guard and Kartik’s second-in-command which in many ways was worse.

Nonetheless, she was glad for Nasireh’s presence. Though they were not in their inner circle (mostly due to their lack of interest and understanding in politics), their presence was calming. It put her at ease. Nasireh’s presence made her feel protected. 

As she walked down the halls of Khorshid’s palace she noted the familiar figure Chaman wandering around aimlessly. His brow was furrowed in concentration, as he looked around the walls, scrutinising them as if he had seen them all before as if they held secrets that he was desperate to unearth.

“Are you alright?” she asked looking at his bewildered expression. “You seem lost.

He smiled at her “I have not yet found my way around the palace.” he admitted. “I was wondering where the library was. I have a mind to try my hand at Akhtari literature.”

“I’m sure Kartik would have shown you personally and have helped you pick out some books, had the ceremony not been today,” she said, she had noted how attached Kartik had become to Chaman. How attached she herself had become to him. “Come I will walk with you.”

“Do not worry yourself, child,” said Chaman. “I am sure you have places to be.”

“I insist,” said Devika. “Nasireh has waited a year, they can wait another hour or so.”

With that, she placed her hand through the crook of Chaman’s elbow and led him towards the direction of the library. 

“Have you lived here all your life?” asked Chaman. “You seem to know the palace very well.”

“I was born here,” Devika replied. “My father, Ranjha, is a scholar. My mother is the Lady Heer of the house Shah.”

“I suppose you took on your mother’s last name then,” said Chaman.

“I did.”

For unlike the countries across the sea where women took their husband’s names and the children took their fathers. In Mahan and Akhtar last names were granted on basis of status or preference. The richer or more highly ranked the individual, the more likely that their partner took on their last name when married. If they shared equal status and were in powerful positions, like Kartik and Aman, their names combined. Children more often than not had the choice of taking either or both of their parent’s names. 

“It must have caused quite a scandal when they married,” said Chaman.

“They never married,” Devika paused. It was something others used to taunt her for when she was younger but now she said it with pride. “I am a bastard.”

“Forgive my assumptions,” Chaman gave her an apologetic smile. 

“You couldn't have known,” she assured him. “Though they loved each other dearly they were forbidden to marry because of their difference in status. My father was sent down to The Eye, to finish his studies so they say. Mother remained at court in service of the Queen Lekisha, Kartik’s mother. The Queen supported her through the pregnancy, even though she too was pregnant with Kartik at the time.” she gave a wistful smile. “I was born a week before Kartik in mid-winter.”

Chaman grinned “And I am sure you never let him forget it.”

“Never,” she confirmed.

The memory of them as children, of her demanding respect because of her elder status, of Kartik promptly wrestling her to the ground in anger, came to her then.

“Mid-winter,” murmured Chaman. “So your birthdays passed before or during the wedding.”

“Kartik turned twenty-four a day before he wed,”

He had been in a fit of nervousness that day. So Devika, Parvaaz, and Qabid had taken his favourite foods and a little wine and had a small quiet celebration of their own. Kartik preferred quiet celebrations anyway. 

“Had we known we would have celebrated them too,” said Chaman. “Next year perhaps?”

“If only we did not have the royal progress.”

“We can always delay it. We have the rest of our lives for that.”

“You are right of course,” she said. “It would be nice for you to be there too. Are you really going back to your country estate after two months in Shafaq?”

“Yes,”

“You should not have to,” she said defiantly. “Kartik enjoys your company. I have learned much from you. And of course your children Keshav and Rajini will be in Shafaq as well as your wife.”

At the mention of Champa, Chaman stiffened. “It’s best if I leave.”

“Do you and Champa not talk?” she asked the realisation coming to her. She should have noticed it before, it stood so clearly now.

“No child,” he said. “I have done her a grievous wrong.”

“Have you tried talking to her?” she asked. “Properly.”

“I do not have to,” said Chaman. “I know her feelings well.”

Devika did not think the same. But she did not say so instead she said “Did Kartik not kill Aman’s father? Your brother? What more grievous wrong can there be than that. And you, as a family, have accepted him as your own, and Aman loves him, though he does not say it aloud.”

She knew what it meant for Kartik, to have this now. She loved the Tripathi's all the more for it.

“You think there is hope?” he asked as they neared the library.

“I know there is,” she said. “There is always hope. Did you not say the same in one of your speeches? Where there is darkness there is light, where there is adversity there is always hope.”

“You have read my speeches?” he asked. 

“I have been meaning to for a while,” she said. She had admired him as a statesman ever since she was thirteen. “I finally got the opportunity in Chandan. Unfortunately, Akhtar did not keep a record of anything Mahanite.” 

“The Great Burnings were a tragedy,” he agreed. “Our only hope is that the records in Shafaq are still intact.”

She opened the door to the library only to see the hulking figure of Nasireh sitting by Keshav and Parvaaz, they were listening intently to all that was being said. Their eyes transfixed on Keshav, who was as of now speaking.

“Nasireh what are you doing here?” she asked, interrupting their conversation. “I did not think you could read.”

“I was bored,” they announced. “You were late so I came here.”

“Would reading not bore you further?” she asked.

It was not that Nasireh was illiterate, far from it. They simply could not concentrate for extended periods of time. More often than not they would pick up a book and neglect to finish it. Visiting libraries was a rare occurrence for them. 

“No more than listening to Banaz or Hesara lecture me about the importance of keeping my shoes clean before I come into the castle.”

Devika rolled her eyes. Nasireh loved to hunt, their marksmanship was unmatched by anyone in Akhtar. But they often had a habit of neglecting to clean themselves after a hunt, thus they would come in, often covered in dirt, with the smell of blood and the forest clinging to their clothes. Devika did not blame Nasireh’s sisters.

“Speaking of Hesara and Banaz, were you not going to show me what they sent?”

Nasireh acquiesced, they bid Parvaaz and Keshav goodbye, albeit rather reluctantly before joining Devika. This, she found, was rather odd. They themselves had insisted she visit them in the morning to go through the gifts. 

“What were you doing in the library?” she asked once they had left. “You have never shown much interest in books or intellectually stimulating conversation before.”

“I have come to realise it is very fascinating,”

Devika suspected there was more to it than that but for now, she decided to leave it be. 

“Are you and your warriors prepared for the ceremony tonight?” she asked them. 

“We have been preparing for a long time. You know how dreadful it can be if unpracticed.” Nasireh smiled. “I am glad Kartik found someone after all this time. I like this Aman. Even if he is Mahanite.”

She remembered a time when Nasireh had hated the Mahanite. She remembered a time when they all did. She remembered a time when she had urged Kartik not to go through with the marriage. She was glad he had not listened to her advice then.

“And what of Rajini?” Devika asked. “What did you think of her?”

“I am glad I renounced my oath of vengeance,” Nasireh said. “There would have been no honour in killing her. She is a good woman and it would be terrible to part her from Kusum. Besides I like her mother, Champa, she embroiders her own sarees, did you know?”

“How is the embroidery on your own lehenga looking?” she asked. 

Nasireh had been working on their lehenga for years. They barely had time to complete it due to their duties, what was more they had insisted on ornate and difficult patterns.

“It is nearly done,” they said. “I had a lot of time on my hands in Halep. I am proud of it thus far. My only regret is that I did not get to wear it to Kartik’s wedding.”

“Their marriage was hastily done,” admitted Devika. “We had no time to call you all the way from Halep, I apologise.”

“There is no need, I doubt I would have been able to make it in time.” Nasireh paused. “So you have finally met Chaman Tripathi. I know how much you admire him. Does he live up to the legend?”

“He is better than legend,” said Devika. The thought of Chaman brought also the thoughts of his relationship with Champa. “Nasireh?”

“Yes?”

“Say if you had a lover, say if you have done them a grievous wrong and say if you wanted to make it up to them. What would you do?”

“Talk to them,” said Nasireh simply. “Explain your reasons for doing what you did.”

“What if fear prevents you from talking to them?”

Nasireh pondered for a moment. “I would make small gestures to let them know I still valued and cared for them.”  
  


“Such as?”

“Asking for their favour during the Bahaduri.” 

~~~

Aman sat on the dais, in an Akhtari temple, on an Akhtari throne, beside an Akhtari king, wearing traditional Akhtari clothing. Though Mahan and Akhtar shared many of their clothing styles, some were decidedly different. Especially if the styles dated to almost more than eight-hundred years ago. 

Despite himself Aman actually liked his present garments, the Akhtari called them _hematari_ . A pleated red knee-length kilt at his waist with a mantle of similar colouring tucked artfully around his left hip and draped over his right shoulder, leaving the left side of his torso bare. _That_ he was told would play an important role in the ceremony. 

It was freeing and light, perfect for a warm spring evening, and a far cry from the stuffy, heavily embroidered sherwanis that were the norm for both the Akhtari and Mahanite courts. He had said as much to Kartik when the servants had finished helping him into his _hematari_.

Kartik had smiled then and merely said. “In ancient times, here in Akhtar, it was not unusual to see a naked man or woman to wander the streets. More often than not they would pass unmolested. It is a tragedy I think, when Erhan and Dilaram conquered both countries, that those laws on modesty came about. We associate a naked body with lust when really we should not.”

Though he understood and agreed with Kartik’s logic, Aman for one was glad of the laws. He was not sure how he would react if he saw Kartik strolling casually through the palace completely naked. 

He also wore gold arm rings, on both his upper arms, shaped like eagles to honour his country; they were another gift from Kartik, given to him this very morning. They were beautifully wrought, Aman had half a mind to wear them always, making them a permanent fixture much like the earring Kartik had give him or the Saapki bone necklace that Mihan had gifted them both when they wed.

Aman turned to observe the people present. The ceremony though more public than the Laal Panj was restricted to the family, their close friends, the priests and high ranking nobles and a retinue of Akhtar’s finest warriors led by Nasireh who stood tall against all others, the gold in their hair gleamed. 

Aman remembered Kartik’s words the night before. _It would be selfish of me to expect you to hold off your desires and keep to your oath of fidelity when there is no pretence for it_. 

He was not sure what to make of it. He was still not sure what to make of it. He had thought Nasireh beautiful and had been flattered by their attention, but in the end, though he was loath to admit, it was Kartik that he wanted. Body and perhaps even soul. No one else. He knew that now. Maybe he had always known that ever since the day he held his hands and wiped away his tears at the temple, all these months ago under Okhine’s gaze.

“Do you remember what you have to do?” Kartik leaned across and whispered in his ear.

Aman turned to the other king. He was similarly dressed. In a red _hematari_ and a silver arm ring which depicted a lion. Aman could not help but admire him in the light of the setting sun that streamed through columns of the open-air temple to Shamsheer.

“My job is simple enough. I have to stand for most of it anyway. What about you?” Aman gave a wan smile. “I think you are in serious danger of burning yourself and of hurting your shoulder.”

“I have you too look after my shoulder, I am not worried about that. As for burning myself, if you must know I have been preparing for this moment my whole life” he said calmly. “I know every movement, every step by heart. Do not worry I will not die. I remember our promise.”

That, and Kartik’s subsequent grin, did not do much to assure Aman but he relented anyway. He only wished Kartik would not reference his own impending doom in such an amused manner. For one it was irritating for another Aman found it downright morbid.

Aman tried not to think about it but instead busied himself by studying the temple to Shamsheer. Unlike temples to Okhine or Noor, this one had no roof. The whole expanse of the evening sky was above them in Shamsheer’s colours, violent shades of red, orange, and yellow. It seemed as if the sky was set alight. No doubt they will say the ceremony was already blessed.

The temple was of circular construction, with a great pyre in the middle, to be set on fire. Shamsheer’s likeness could not be replicated on stone, so the legends say, the closest humanity could ever come to her worship was through the flame.

When twilight approached, a priest of Shamsheer came forth and placed a torch in the pyre. The flames leaped up as if in violent yearning for the sky above. Then as if realizing its inevitable defeat the flames, steadied down. 

At Nasireh’s signal, the Akhtari warriors rose from their places from the outer ring to circle the fire. They turned to their kings. In one swift motion, they unsheathed their swords and drew their wooden shields to their chests. As if of one body, together they knelt before their kings. Together they beat the hilts of the swords against their shields, a rhythmic sound that was not unlike a drumbeat, yet it was somehow more alluring. 

The beautiful piercing notes of a sitar joined the beating of the shields. Aman felt his heart reverberate with the music, echo it, move with it. It was a drug and he was entirely in its thrall. As if he had been transported, into the realm legends and songs.

Much like the Laal Panj ceremony, there was a song and a legend behind the Khan Khardesh. 

Instead of the priest singing, however, it was the warriors who took up the song. Their voices were low and rich, adding a haunting, yet powerful air to the beating of the swords on shields, and the music of the sitar.

They told the tale of the first King of Akhtar, Khilji and his consort Parmida, a spirit of the water. Akhtar had been seven kingdoms then, with Khilji being but a humble blacksmith. Khilji would often take water from the river Qurbaani in order to make his weapons, which were known as the best throughout the seven kingdoms. 

On one of his trips to the Qurbaani, he spied a maiden of surpassing beauty. This was Parmida, and it was said they fell in love at first sight. However, on the day they wed a monstrous beast had risen from the depths and had slaughtered the people of his village. 

Though Parmida and Khilji had survived, Khilji swore an oath to take down the best. His family had tried their best to persuade him against it but he would not be moved. 

Before he had left on his quest, Parmida had dressed him in his armor herself and advised him to seek out Shamsheer. He had followed his wife’s advice and spoke to the goddess. She helped him forge a sword, they said was made from a shard of the moon. Once his sword was finished the goddess had sent him forth, willing him to visit all the seven kingdoms before he sought the monster.

He did as promised. Each and every kingdom joined his cause and were thus united as one nation under the silver lion of Akhtar. 

Khilji and his army slain the monster. But in the end, he himself was mortally wounded. His last wish had been to see Parmida, she was brought before him. He had raised his bloodied hand towards her, he could not speak, he had only the strength to write his own name, in blood, at her breast, just above her heart. They say that mark that never faded and that his soul lived through her from that moment on. Parmida had ruled Akhtar in his stead.

The song started thus:

_All the waters of the world_

_could not wash away_

_The stains of your love_

_Neither can they make light_

_The bloodied stains_

_Of the innocent slain_

Kartik and Aman rose at those words.

The priest of Shamsheer brought an ornate chest containing what Aman knew to be an almost forged short sword, a hammer, various parts of armour and a helm. Aman knew what he had to do, just what Parmida had done before she sent Khilji off to his quest. He took the pieces of armour; the greaves to be placed on his limbs and the shoulder plate, and laced them onto Kartik's body.

_When vengeance has you in its thrall_

_Remember me as I am now_

_And know, life is not all bitterness_

Aman wondered briefly if the gods were mocking his plight through the song. But he did not let the thought consume him. He continued lacing the armour.

When he was sure the armor was well fitted Aman took the hammer and the unfinished sword and placed them in Kartik’s hands. Kartik took them up firmly, gazing ahead steadily. 

_I gird you with hammer and sword_

_May they prove good companions in my stead_

Finally, Aman placed the helm on Kartik’s head. Through the helm Kartik’s eyes met his.

_I set out to conquer_

_In this armour and form_

_The world knows me not_

_Only you can see who I am_

_Your eyes miss nothing_

Though they had practiced the beginnings of the Khan Khardesh many times in their rooms for most of the day, it was only now that they actually performed this particular part of the ceremony. 

Aman did what Parmida would have done in a time long past, he leaned forwards and placed his lips on Kartik’s. This kiss was not featherlight like their first one, nor was it drenched in lust like their second. This kiss was firm. This kiss was true. In short, it was an earnest kiss. A kiss of goodbye and good morrow. 

_“Return to me, return to me”_

_She would whisper to stars_

_As his horse drove forth_

_Turning the roads to dust_

_“Return to me in a year and_

_Not a sunrise more,”_

Their lips parted, Kartik turned to face his quest, he turned his back to Aman and walked forward amongst the warriors who knelt and beating their shields, but he did not join them. He went instead to the fire that was Shamsheer. He stood a dark silhouette against the flame, Aman could barely make out the lines of his body that he knew so well. 

When Kartik’s voice joined the song, the sounds of the other warriors became a low hum. His sweet voice rang through the temple. It sounded like a thunderstorm that rained down sugared water.

_May the heavens fall upon me_

_May the earth shatter like glass_

_I will walk through fire_

_Before I break this oath to you_

_I could let go of this world my love_

_But never your hand_

That was the only verse he sang. As he finished, the warriors' voices grew steadily louder. Kartik drew the tip of the sword along the ground. As he did so the warriors rose, still beating their shields. Kartik swung the sword once in the air, before thrusting it into the fire and Aman watched as the steel turned red hot as if turning into a shard of raw flame. 

A signal for the ceremony to begin in earnest. The warriors converted their beating, so that now, instead of only beating their shields with the hilts of their swords, they were now using the flats of the blade as well as swinging their swords in the air. The beat of the music changed to something more lively. They were no longer stationary either, with every step they took they leaped in the air, ringing the flames as a group. 

It was a mesmerising spectacle but Aman’s eyes were transfixed on one man alone.

Kartik stood still before the flames he drew the blazing sword out. The helm obscured his face but Aman could see in the way he held himself, the way his chest rose and fell that Kartik too was in the fevered realm between fear and bravery. 

_The flame is his sword_

_The steel is in his eyes_

_He stands a shadow_

_That moulds the light_

Then he moved.

Aman had seen Kartik dance before, he had also seen him fight. But he had never seen him do both together. The dance that an Akhtari monarch performed with the goddess Shamsheer was a dangerous one and had killed many an arrogant ruler who had thought they needed no practice. Kartik’s movements had an intensity to them, a sternness that Aman had not seen before. 

In this dance, he encapsulated the lover, the blacksmith, the warrior, and the king. His footwork was had the rapidity of an inferno, his body pulsated with the flame and music.

He turned his sword around in the air, swung his hammer, danced round the flames courting it like a lover. The music reached its crescendo, roiling through the temple. The sound burned through Aman as if it were fire.

Then came the warrior’s cries.

_Hayilleh!_

_(I forge a kingdom!)_

At this Kartik spun and struck the sword with his hammer in mid-air. The sparks flew from the union like red stars.

_Haqilleh!_

_(I forge an empire!)_

He did the same thing. Striking the sword with his hammer as he spun in mid-air. 

And he did it again and again to the sounds of twenty _Hayilleh’s_ and twenty _Haqilleh’s_. Forty times. To represent the forty days and forty nights Khilji had spent forging his own sword. 

The music slowed and as did Kartik’s movements. He circled the flame once more before coming to a stop. His body was gleaming from the heat of the flames and the strenuous movements of the dance. Through the distance and through the helm his eyes met Aman’s once again.

He dipped the red hot sword into the trough of water that had been placed by a wily servant while Aman, and no doubt all others present, had been wholly engrossed in the movement of the warriors and Kartik. 

Slowly but surely he raised the newly forged sword towards Aman. In dedication and in oath. 

_I have one life_

_I have one heart_

_I have one soul_

_All these I sacrifice for you_

_I know you will._ Aman thought to himself. _And I will have to live with it in this lifetime and the next. Sometimes I wonder whether this is the right thing for me to ask of you_.

Kartik walked away from the dying flame, the hammer, and sword in his hands. All the warriors knelt as he went past. But he did not hesitate for them, he never had and he never will. His eyes were focused on Aman and Aman alone. 

Kartik came and stood before him on the dais. He smelt of ash, sweat, and steel. His gaze burned through the helm. But Aman remembered his role. He took off Kartik’s helm for him and gazed at his haggard face and his burning eyes. Aman picked up the sealed red dye, the last thing in the ornate chest. He opened it held it towards Kartik.

The newly forged sword was not yet wholly sharp, but it would serve its purpose. 

Kartik pierced the tip of his fingers and dipped it in the red dye that Aman held in his hands. With a surprisingly steady hand, he placed his finger on Aman’s chest, just where his heart was beating furiously. 

Steadily he wrote his own name above Aman’s heart, just as Khilji had once done for Parmida. _Kartik._ The name would stain his body for weeks to come.

_Your name is writ on my heart in blood forever_

_Hamchal Parashe (your soul is in my heart)_

* * *

Songs:

[The Ertugrul Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xDwrbl-CuQ) song is kinda how I imagined the song for the ceremony.

[Your Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Pq-E2CGqq4) is also another vibe

[Movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyRD49DP6eA) by Hozier for probably Aman watching Kartik


	36. A Wall of Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for Dhyan for writing up shit that high key helped with this chapter. Also thanks to Mehan for singing me songs when I was writing/editing. Playlist to the songs that helped this chapter will be below.
> 
> Also updating earlier than scheduled bc I have a surprise for tommorrow <3\. If you guess what it is I will give you a hug or something idk I'll figure it out.
> 
> Also fun trivia I based Aman and Nasireh's relationship on Lancelot and Guinevere in the King Arthur legends. Ofc platonic tho.

We did not understand it then

What death truly meant

It is not stone to be weathered

But steel in heaven’s ascent

\- Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

In the end, Kartik had knelt before Aman. In the end, he held out the sacred sword towards him. It was Aman’s duty to name it.

_ Anusaya.  _

It meant ‘New Dawn’ in the archaic Mahanite tongue. Aman suspected it was the first time a sword wrought in the Khan Khardesh ceremony was called by a Mahanite name. 

The gesture was merely ceremonial, Aman had his own sword, handed down through centuries by the Mahanite monarchs before him. That could not be ignored. Even if it could, Anusaya was not his for the keeping. The very next morning they were to inter it to the tombs, where all the other swords of the rulers and their consorts were kept. 

_ A bond wrought steel _

So the words of the hymn had gone.

_ placed in the realm of death _

_ all the ages of the world will not break it _

It held a cultural significance. Kartik had explained. Death and warfare were so inextricably linked, but by placing a sword in a tomb, it was said that you were defying death. Your bond remains immortal, even when your body has long perished. 

Aman thought it an interesting custom, he was slowly coming to learn that though both Mahan and Akhtar considered warfare an integral part of their culture, only Akhtar could truly be called a warrior nation. It permeated almost every aspect of Akhtari life, Aman suspected it had a lot to do with Khilji being a blacksmith, forger of weapons.

When the ceremony had finished and they had gone to rooms. Kartik had been too tired to massage his own shoulder so Aman had done it for him. After a quick bath, and taking a dose of his draught, Kartik had instantly fallen into a deep sleep. 

Aman was not surprised. 

He had noticed a sort of tiredness to Kartik’s every move as if the ceremony had siphoned all the fire out of him to feed Shamsheer’s flames. The ceremony had lived up to its dangerous reputation, and he could imagine how taxing it must have been to not only perform a complicated and strenuous dance but to risk burning or death itself.

Though he was sure Kartik’s sleep would be dreamless Aman did not neglect to take Kartik’s hand in his own as he did every night since the Phulantari. There was no knowing when his nightmares would resurface, even under the influence of fatigue and the draught. He could not stand by and watch Kartik go through that horror without providing comfort. Honour compelled him. Besides, it had become a habit he could not quite shake off. 

Aman was the first to wake in the morning. As always he waited for Kartik to wake up too. Though he knew Kartik did not need his hand when he was so close to waking up, he kept it there nonetheless. For one he did not want to take any chances. For another he liked the feeling of their hands together.    
  


In the early hours of the morning, he could admit that little sin to himself. 

He could admit another sin too. He liked the way Kartik’s features were softened through sleep. There was something angelic about them. Something dreamlike. A part of him wished he did not have to see his features marred, as he often did, with worries of the day and the horrors of the night.

_ In another world or another time, I could have been his protector. His friend. His lover.  _

Kartik’s fluttered open then fell on Aman lazily, a languid smile made its way to his lips as he clutched Aman’s hands tighter.

“Did you sleep well?” Aman asked.

“Never better,” said Kartik. “I did not dream.”

_ It is a terrible world _ Aman thought  _ When grey drudgery, when the state of nothing, is deemed a luxury.  _

A thought entered his head then. I thought he wished that never came.  _ Would it perhaps even be a mercy to kill him? _

He withdrew his hand from Kartik’s and rose from the bed not wishing to dwell on such thoughts.

“I am going to bathe,” he announced. 

“I would join you,” said Kartik with a sly grin. “But I have already bathed and I think I would much rather lay here for a little more.”

He knew Kartik meant nothing by it. He was prone to saying things that bordered on flirtatious, especially when he was half asleep. Yet the thought of Kartik’s suggestion made Aman’s cheeks burn. 

He went to the baths nonetheless. When he returned, a towel wrapped around his waist, he was surprised to see Kartik already up and wearing his clothes. Aman knew he should also go behind the screen to put his own clothes on but his eyes fell on the sword, Anusaya. As if by instinct he picked it up, swung it in the air, and smiled. 

Slowly he tried a few parries and blocks, moving around the room in rapid succession.

“The balance is perfect,” he remarked. “I have half a mind to actually keep it.”

He turned to see that Kartik was looking at him, with the same strange expression that he would use when he was reading or writing poetry. His look was pointed, his fire concentrated. Kartik certainly was not admiring him as he did poetry, so Aman assumed he was doing something wrong.

“I’m sorry I probably should not be playing around with a sacred sword.”

“It’s not all that sacred.” His eyes did not leave Aman, he was smiling now. “I was admiring your footwork and wondering how you are so marvelously terrible at dancing.”

Aman could not even insult him back. Kartik’s dance at the Khan Khardesh still roiled in his mind. But noticed Kartik’s eyes were Aman’s chest, at the place where the Akhtari king’s name was written in blood and due. 

“How far are the tombs?” Aman asked, swinging the sword around again. “You said they were not in the city.”

“An hour’s ride.” he seemed saddened. Then Aman realized why. His family was buried there. 

“When do we leave?”

“Whenever you decide it is a good idea to wear your clothes.”

Aman looked down to see he still had only a towel around his waist. A sheepish smile crept up to his face, and he took his clothes, ducked behind the screen to change. 

Rajini had once remarked that she thought it strange that they kept a screen in their private chambers. Kartik had immediately deflected it by saying it was more so for prying eyes than for each other. Though in reality, it was not the case.

Once Aman had changed they set out towards the tombs. During the ride there Aman noticed that Kartik was growing increasingly despondent. As they neared, Kartik's conversation became sparser, his smile less bright, his attention divided.

Aman found it disconcerting. He was so used to Kartik’s sunshine to his jokes and smiles, so used to his burning intensity even when he was silent, that seeing him like this, like the slow waning of a moon frightened him. But he spoke not. It was clear Kartik did not want to be disturbed.

The tombs were different from the ones in Chandan. For one they were not built underground. The tombs were an architectural marvel, almost a city in itself, erected on a slight hill in the middle of a swaying meadow of wildflowers. 

Kartik stopped their horses and slid out of the saddle. The first thing he did was to pick a handful of wildflowers. Aman noted there was a significant number of white roses in his hands.

He remembered the white rose that Kartik had given his own father, Shankar. He remembered the way it had been stained by blood and dye. At the thought, the skin just above his heart, where Kartik wrote his name, seemed to pulse. Would they ever be free of the blood that stained them?

The song of Khilji and Parmida was in his ears now. 

_ All the waters of the world  _

_ could not wash away  _

_ The stains of your love _

_ Neither can they make light _

_ The blood of innocent slain _

Love? Was it love? Aman was not sure. He found he did not want to be sure. So he expelled such thoughts from his mind, took the sword Anusaya in his hands, and followed as Kartik ascended the hill.

The inside of the tombs was noticeably less grim. One could even call them colourful, with various frescoes of Akhtari royals, wrought pastel hues with hints of gold. As with everything in Akhtar, Aman found himself speechless at the sight of it all. 

He never thought a place of death could be so beautiful.

Kartik led him through the tombs. They must have looked a strange pair, Kartik with white roses and wildflowers in his hands and Aman with a sword. Finally, they came to a stop at a wall, holding what looked like hundreds of swords. Each magnificent. Each gleaming in the morning light. 

Aman’s clutch on Anusaya tightened. If the walls of bloodied hands on the tombs in Chandan looked like a massacre, this wall looked like the cause of it.

He did not look at Kartik as he braved the wall. As he placed the sword beside the others. As the Queen Lekisha, Kartik’s mother had once done. As all the consorts of Akhtar had once done.

_ Akhtar’s last consort.  _ He thought bitterly as the sword was fitted in place.

Once he was done he turned to Kartik who was still watching him with that peculiar gaze of his. 

“You can go ahead,” he Kartik. “I have something to do.”

Aman knew exactly what he was going to do. There was a reason why he had roses and wildflowers in his hands. A reason for his forlornness, a reason for his downcast gaze. 

“I would like to pay my respects as well,” said Aman. 

Kartik gave a wan smile “I suppose it was time you were introduced to the rest of the family.”

Aman wished Kartik did not have to say it like that. But he could not berate him for it. Not when he was like this. Kartik led him to three frescoes that lay side by side, beneath them three tombs.

“This is my father,” Kartik pointed to the fresco of a tall dark man with stern features. 

He had Kartik’s same tall build, strong jaw, hooded eyes, short beard and heavy brow. He was depicted with both hands clutching a sword. Though Aman did not know the full extent of King Jagesh’s abuse, he knew that it was enough to leave scars on Kartik’s body, mind, and soul. He hated the man as thoroughly as he had once hated Kartik.

“This is my mother, Lekisha.” Kartik continued, pointing at the fresco of a lovely woman with flowing black hair. 

She held a bouquet of white roses in her hands. Then Aman understood the significance of the white rose Kartik had given to Shankar in the tombs in Chandan. He understood and he despaired.

She was beautiful. Though objectively Kartik shared more of his features with Jagesh his manner seemed to be more like his mother’s. 

“She has your smile,” said Aman. “And your nose ring.”

Kartik smiled. “This is the first anyone had ever said I looked like her.” Kartik looked up at his mother. “I was thirteen when I got my nose pierced. I wanted to honour her memory. When father saw he-” 

Kartik’s smile fell then, he did not say more on the subject but turned to the third fresco. 

“This is my sister,” he said. “Ofira.”

“I knew not you had a sister,” said Aman softly, he looked up at the image of a baby, with large dark eyes not unlike Lekisha’s, a crown of wildflowers at her brow. 

“She died when she was but three days old,” Kartik replied as a way of explanation. “I remember holding her in those days after Mother died. I remember thinking that Mother would live on through her.” Kartik smiled though there were tears now in his eyes. “She would have been sixteen had she not succumbed to fever.”

Aman was not sure what to say. He took Kartik’s trembling hands in his and pressed them. He understood what it was like to lose someone you loved. While he had only had one person taken away from him, Kartik had three. 

_ I cannot protect him  _ Aman told his dead in-laws.  _ But I will provide him with comfort for as long as I can. This I vow. _

~~~

Aman had eventually taken half the flowers from Kartik’s hands, he had knelt beside Kartik and paid his respects. He had also not stopped looking at him since they left the tombs. It was as if he was seeing him anew. Kartik did not know what to make of it, so he did not think of it, instead, he tried to liven somber air with stories of him and Nasireh when they had been younger. 

It seemed to work because by the time Nasireh arrived for their planned midmorning meal they were in high spirits. Or at least in the pretence of them.

Nasireh finally arrived, dressed out of their formal armour, red and silver livery. They were wearing a sherwani of light green and silver. It was one Kartik had gifted them two years ago on their birthday in the spring. 

Gabru who had been sitting by them all the while went up to Nasireh and started sniffing curiously. 

“Who is this?” asked Nasireh, laughing as they bent down and affectionately scratched Gabru behind the ear.

“This is Gabru,” Kartik announced proudly. “He’s from Chandan.”

“A stray,” supplied Aman. 

“You dare call him a stray. You are the one who gave him the ornate collar, saying he was a  _ royal _ dog now.” Kartik paused. “None of that matters you still have not apologised to him.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” huffed Aman.

“Why does Aman need to apologise to him?” asked Nasireh.

“He treated Gabru terribly,” explained Kartik. “He was not very welcoming when he first joined our family.”

“I will be damned before I call him family.” protested Aman. “Kartik picked him up on the streets during one of our late night walks.”

“You are lucky it is nothing worse. You should have seen him when he was younger,” said Nasireh, sitting beside them on one of the cushions. “Once he brought home a lizard.”

“So I have been told,” said Aman smiling.

Gabru was still wandering around Nasireh, eventually, he started licking them.

“Come Gabru,” said Kartik, he preferred having the dog by his side.

But Gabru ignored him and lay his head on Nasireh’s lap. “I think he likes me better,” they said with a grin. 

_ First, you try and steal my husband and now you’ve stolen my dog _ . Kartik thought. It was a poisonous thought and an untrue one so he did not voice it. 

“How were the soldiers today?” he asked instead. 

“The usual,” said Nasireh. “Zaim had to take the week off. You know how terrible his cramps can be at this time of the month.”

“I could imagine that it is difficult for anyone,” said Kartik. He turned to Aman seeing that he was confused. “Zaim is Nasireh’s second in command.”

“Is he the one that helped Rajini coordinate the guards during our wedding?” asked Aman. “I remember him well, I did not remember his name.”

“He also assisted in the organising of the Khan Khardesh,” said Nasireh. “Which by the way was remarkable.”

“Is that a compliment to me Nasireh?” asked Kartik.

“I am merely expressing my amazement that you did not die.”

Aman grinned and Kartik found himself laughing. 

“We should start eating,” announced Kartik, he took off the lids from the dishes that were laid out before them on the low table. 

He had asked the cook to make the pistachio sweets that Aman seemed to have enjoyed at the welcoming banquet. Aman’s face lit up at the sight of them, when he gave Kartik a grateful look and a warm smile, Kartik felt a warmth bloom at his chest.

“Do we send Gabru away?” asked Nasireh. “Dogs tend to be messy when others are eating.”

“Please do not remind Aman,” said Kartik. “Gabru is not supposed to be here, it is a miracle he had not been sent away.”

Over the past few days, Aman had let Gabru into their sleeping quarters from time to time. He did not however allow Gabru to sleep on the bed as of yet. But progress was progress and Kartik was determined to have Aman like Gabru. He knew in his own way Gabru would look after Aman when he was gone.

“Gabru is well trained,” said Aman quietly. “I half suspect he may have been trained as a guide and a helper for the blind. He has almost human intelligence and seems to preempt and understand what needs to be done in situations.”

“And yet,” said Kartik “You still have the audacity to call him a stray.”

“He was wandering the streets!”

“It does not matter, he was trained at one point. He was looked after at one point.”

“Technically speaking-”

“Your technicalities can go to hell, apologise to Gabru.”

Nasireh raised their hands in mock surrender “If I knew you two argued this much I would not have joined you for a meal.”

Kartik knew they meant it jokingly, knew if anything Nasireh was more than amused. But Kartik did not want them to feel left out because he and Aman could not be civil for more than five minutes when it came to the topic of Gabru. He decided to divert their attention elsewhere. 

“I apologise Nasireh,” said Kartik. “But I think you and my husband have a lot to talk about on the musical front.” He turned to Aman. “Nasireh plays the harp.”

Aman seemed to look at Nasireh with newfound admiration. “I play the sitar.”

“Do you make your own compositions?”

“Yes. Some are unfinished though, I never quite had the time.”

“Perhaps that’s where their beauty lies, in being unfinished.”

The two launched into a conversation on notes, strings and raags, Kartik noted there was a certain liveliness in Aman’s eye that he had only seen at the Phulantari. He was less rigid, carefree, more relaxed. He was smiling more often. 

Kartik could not help but feel distanced from their conversation. Distanced from Aman. 

Today it was Nasireh who made him laugh. It was Nasireh who made him smile. It was Nasireh who brought out the beautiful lively side of Aman. 

It was Nasireh not Kartik. 

Something had bloomed between the two of them in their conversation. It was something Kartik was not a part of. He knew he should be glad, that one of his best friends and the man he loved found some happiness in each other. But while Kartik’s heart was capable of great magnanimity, it did not mean he was free from pettiness.

_ They must never suspect it,  _ he concluded.  _ They must never suspect this jealousy. It will only taint their bond, and I cannot have that. Nasireh will look after Aman when I am gone. Aman deserves someone better than I, even if he does not see it. Nasireh deserves the world. No, they must never know my poisonous thoughts. _

  
So Kartik braved a smile. __

* * *

Songs for this chapter all by Imagine Dragons courtesy of Mehan:

[Second Chances](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1aRky5or4Q)

[Gold ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXMcxaRR0TY)

[Hopeless Opus ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BoVKJq5Qvxs)

[Smoke and Mirrors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDPnaTQF6Dw)

[Trouble](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4l5SLs5u8A)

[Polaroid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmjyO-r1OhA)

[Shots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndtQ6ReXO-s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that people maybe getting a little bored with the content since not much is happening. Yeah sure its fun but I feel as if it may seem like I'm meandering with the story. So i'm going to reveal a few things in my plan (non-spoiler) just so you all have kinda an aim to look forward to or something (and so i can stick to my plan bc i have a habit of not doing that):
> 
> Ch 37-38 will be Bahaduri festival, also will include something Sunflower fans may be looking forward too (I am scared to write this for reasons) and will include some Champman development.
> 
> Ch 39 is where the plot picks up speed.
> 
> Ch 43 includes an interesting development to Karman’s relationship. 
> 
> Ch 48 has a scene which I know many people have been waiting for ever since the fic began (also scared of writing this for reasons). 
> 
> Ch 50 onwards is where shit goes down. Be warned its not pretty


	37. The Gold Dragonfly and the Black Nath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kartik wears a nath <3 which is relevant to the story I promise. 
> 
> Anyway the concept of Kartik nath came to me many weeks ago. I told Dhyan first and they wrote it in my bday fic which I will talk more about in the notes. Then I told my pareshaan gays and now I have a whole bunch of edits of Kartik with a nath on my phone. I couldn't not put it into TGM so here you go, enjoy.
> 
> I also affectionately call this chapter the boomer chapter. You will understand why soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost I would like to wish everyone a very happy six month anniversary of smzs. This movie has undoubtedly changed our lives for the better and has connected me with so many amazing people. Unfortunately I didn't have an entirely new fic planned for this event (maybe I'll do something for the whole 1 year anniversary) but I hope that this update will serve.
> 
> I would also like to thank all the people who gave me something for my birthday last Friday. I will be linking all the fics down below because (and I say this with no bias) they are criminally underrated.

We lived then in love and laughter

The bloodshed cast aside those days

Later when the wars returned

We’d remembered how we lost our way

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Kaali arrived after a week. He made no remark on the beauty of Khorshid or Akhtar itself. Though Sunaina understood, for he had never liked the Akhtari, she found herself disappointed in him nonetheless. Was it not a time for them all to let go of the past and think instead of the future? Was it not the time to love their differences instead of hate them?

Though she was disappointed in Kaali’s lack of appreciation she knew he was trying his best. He supported Aman and he was doing all he could for the prosperity two kingdoms, despite his once vehement hatred for the Akhtari. 

The first thing he did when he arrived was request a private council meeting. Sunaina had not wanted to involve herself in politics. Not after ten years ruling by Aman’s side, so she had not been present.

But from what she had garnered the arrival of Mandhav, if he truly was Mandhav, had upset the political climate of Mahan. Thus Kaali had established a system of spies in Dasmesh’s keep, which Mandhav now occupied, in order to circumvent any plots that would endanger the Singh-Tripathi alliance, which knowing the background of the Dasmesh family was not improbable. 

Two weeks passed with correspondence from Dasmesh’s keep and the spies installed there. The only thing that they learned of merit was that Mandhav was building a strong presence within the armed forces that occupied the keep and that the common folk were slowly being drawn into in his cause, putting on Dasmesh’s livery and training as soldiers. In short it was clear whatever move Mandhav was trying to pull it would be a military one. 

Sunaina was not sure what Aman, Kartik and the rest of the advisors were doing to prevent this, for they talked more about the preparations of Bahaduri in her presence than they did of Mandhav. She did not blame them for it, Mandhav was no longer the same. He had turned…odious somehow. She could not account for how such a bright young boy had turned into a man brimming with hatred.

But then she would remember Aman and the years of vengeance he had honed in the wake of his father’s death. Then she understood. Vengeance could turn the sweetest of people into bitter shells of themselves. It did not mean she liked it but she understood. Like the others she preferred to turn her mind to the Bahaduri.

Despite their intimate involvement with preparation Kartik and the rest of Akhtar had managed to keep most of it a secret from them all, almost as well as Sunaina herself had kept the secret of the Phulantari from him. All she knew was that people from all over Akhtar would be coming and that it happened every seven years. 

She only truly understood what the Bahaduri was on the day that it was held and Sunaina cursed herself for not figuring it out earlier. The word _bahadur_ meant courage in Akhtari and judging from their fascination with all things warfare, it should have been obvious that it would a tournament of combat and athletics. 

“It is held every seven years,” Kartik explained as the seated themselves on a raised a dais in the arena. The dais was opulently furnished in the Akhtar fashion with several depictions of various forms of combats engraved into the walls. The red silk hangings fluttering the late spring air. “To honour our war gods. People from all over Akhtar come to participate.”

He was wearing a black sherwani with hints of gold, a gold and black Nath at his nose instead of his usual nos ering. It had been his mother’s, he had explained. She had worn it at his first Bahaduri and he had worn the same one at the tournament ever since. Aman sat beside him, also in black and gold he wore a delicate gold and jewelled earring shaped like a dragonfly. It had once belonged to Sunaina, but Aman had loved it so much as a child, Sunaina had relented giving it to him. He was listening to Kartik attentively.

“War gods?” Kusum questioned, she was dressed in saree of mustard with gold sequins that ran through the dupatta in straight lines.

She was holding on to Rajini’s hand, who was wearing the full armour of a Mahanite commander in chief. Such public displays of her affection occur more often now that Mandhav was gone. Though Sunaina was glad Kusum and Rajini had found happiness in each other yet she missed spending her free hours with Kusum, whom she considered a daughter.

“In Mahan,” continued Kusum. “We only have one war God, Yuddhan.”

“We have eight.” Said Qabid. “Each for different kinds of warfare. Rami for archery, Shashtar for combat with weapons, Asparukh for Ghor-Sivar which is armed combat on horseback, Sarih for races, Nayveh for spear throwing, Kishmah for unarmed combat, Ziranc god of strategic warfare, and Azarm god of honourable warfare.The are there eight days of the tournament starting from the morrow, one to honour each god.”

“It all make sense,” said Rajini. “But for the final one that honours Azarm what activity is held?”

“Mostly for feasting and celebration but there seem to be two people equally matched they do freeform combat determine the winner” said Kartik. “It is also a day of justice. Anyone is allowed to challenge anyone to a trial by combat if they feel wronged. Even a king cannot refuse. This right is no longer invoked, since it is a rather savage custom, but it is still in place.”

“Are there any events today?” Aman had asked. 

Kartik shook his head “Today is merely the opening ceremony and the collection for the names of the competitors and the ones they will champion.”

“All this to be done in one day?” asked Chaman. “How do you manage it?”

“We have systems in place,” Parvaaz had explained. “We have been using them for centuries.”

Parvaaz launched into a discussion with Chaman about the said systems that allowed them to accurately collect names and organise the competitions within days. Chaman and Keshav seemed fascinated by it but Sunaina found she did not particularly care as long as the Bahaduri went off without a hitch.

Rajini turned her attention to the arena.

“How do you win?” asked Rajini, her good eye was hardened and fixed on the sands arena.

Sunaina could already tell her niece was intent on winning the prize. While Rajni was carefree in most aspects of life she was ambitious when it come to competitions of the sword.

“The person who wins the most prizes in the competition is named Champion.” explained Devika. “The one who’s favour they were granted becomes the King, Queen or Monarch of Swords.”

“Who won last time?” Aman asked.

Kartik smiled at him, it was a soft smile, a sad one too and in a low voice he said “I did.” He paused. “Qabid was the King of Swords. I wore his favour into every event.”

Aman regarded Kartik with warm appraisal. His eyes were brimming with a certain tenderness and admiration, but he checked it quickly before Kartik could notice. There was love between them, but there was still trepidation on Aman’s part, this much Sunaina knew.

“Do kings usually participate?” Sunaina found herself asking.

Qabid laughed. “No. In fact it is highly discouraged. Kartik was feeling particularly rebellious that day.”

“I half suspect everyone let me win,” Kartik grumbled. “Though I did not see it that way then.”

“You underrate yourself,” said Qabid. “You participated valiantly, if a little recklessly. Though you were only sixteen I will give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Kartik smiled again. It was a strange smile. As if he regretted the memory but still had a fondness for it. 

~~~

The opening ceremony was a smaller and less dangerous version of Kartik’s dance with Shamsheer. The finest warriors of Akhtar, including Nasireh, performed this dance dedicating it to the gods. When it was finished Kartik and Aman stood to address the crowd to welcome them to the tournament.

Qabid had heard the speech many times before, ten times in his entire life. It was similar every time, reminding the people of the eight war gods and their importance.

The only change in this year’s Bahaduri was Aman’ introduction.

“The Bahaduri is doubly blessed,” said Kartik. “For it marks the first Bahaduri, in 300 years, to be held in a time of peace, the first Bahaduri that is held under the united banner of Mahan and Akhtar. Though we devote this tournament to the gods of war, this time we pray that war does not follow us and that courage need not only be proved in battle.”

There was silence in the crowd at first. War and courage were intertwined it was all they knew. It was a hard concept to grasp yet grasp it they did. One by one the crowd gathered in the arena dropped to their knees their hands to their chest. The royal family and the advisors followed until the only ones standing were the two kings.

An image of peace in a tournament of war. A year ago Qabid would have called it impossible. But today he understood. Glory and courage lay not in the battles and tragedies. Glory, true glimmering glory was vested in those that found peace and love despite everything. Qabid never felt more proud to call Kartik and Aman his kings.

“Rise,” it was Aman who spoke now. “Rise and let the festivities begin."

In truth the opening day of the Bahaduri did indeed resemble a festival rather than a competition of arms. It was a day for the children to play and for the adults to feast. In the arena children played games with kites and ribbons, with some of the elder ones playing at war. All the while the adults went about eating, writing their names in the lists as competitors or making bets on who will win.

Rajini had been the first person to sign her name in the lists, asking for Kusum’s favour which she had readily given in the form of a ribbon from her hair. Qabid watched as the woman tied the ribbon, as bright and as yellow as the petals of a sun flower, to her sword.

It stood out against the dark steel.

“Just so you know,” said Kartik to Rajini. “My money is on you winning the tournament.”

“Even against Nasireh?” Asked Devika.

“Especially against Nasireh,”

Aman rolled his eyes and gracefully picked a grape out of the bowl of iced fruit. He turned to his cousin with a wicked grin. He was a far cry from the solemn man Qabid had seen all those months ago in Kashatr.

“I for one am putting my money on Nasireh.”

Kartik frowned at the statement. It was not a playful frown. Qabid knew Kartik, as if he were his own son. No, that was not right. Kartik _was_ his son. He knew that this frown belied feelings far more sinister. Qabid wondered if it was jealousy.

No one else seemed to have noticed. Not even Aman. Rajini gave Aman a glare.

“Against your own dear cousin?” She asked, her voice sickly sweet.

“It would be a honour to see you beaten for once,” he replied.

Soon the youngest of them had created a betting pool. Kartik, Kusum and Parvaaz were all betting on Rajini winning while Aman and Devika decided to bet on Nasireh. The only who had not yet picked a side was Keshav.

“Come Keshav,” said Rajini. “Do not betray me like our ass of a cousin.”

Keshav blushed and looked down at his hands. “I will not chose.”

“I am your sister,” she protested. “Nasireh is nothing to you.”

Keshav looked her in the eye “I will not wilfully waste my money on such folly.”

“Keshav is the wisest of all of you fools,” quipped Qabid. “How do we even know these two will even make it to the finals?”

“I respect you old man,” said Rajini. “But do not cast doubt on my abilities.”

“I cast no judgement until you end up in my sickroom seeking treatment.” Replied Qabid.

Rajini laughed at that.

As if summoned, Qabid heard Nasireh’s familiar footsteps ascend the stairs to the raised dais. Nasireh smiled brightly at them all as the entered.

“What is exactly so hilarious?” they asked.

“Me beating you in the tournament,” Rajini replied with a grin.

“Yes I find the notion rather comedic as well.” Quipped Nasireh.

“In that notion you have only two supporters,” said Kartik. “Parvaaz, Kusum and I have betted against you.”

“I did not expect such betrayal from you Parvaaz,” said Nasireh, then they smiled. “Pray tell my supporters.”

“Aman and Devika,” said Kartik. “Keshav has decided not to bet against either of you.”

Nasireh flashed Keshav a warm smile before they went and knelt before Aman pressing their fist against their chest. “You honour me, my king. For this I request you grant me your favour so that I may champion you in this tournament and many more to come.”

Aman smiled at Nasireh. He undid the dragonfly earring from his ear. He rose from his seat and hooked the earring into the mail of Nasireh’s armour. It shone brightly at their chest.

“I know you will wear it with pride and honour.” Said Aman.

Nasireh rose, but Qabid’s eyes were fixed on Kartik. The young king’s expression was mournful as his observed the budding relationship between his husband and the one who he considered one of his closest friends. Qabid understood Kartik’s jealousy, but h also understood it to be baseless.

Did Kartik not see that the way Aman looked at Nasireh was nothing more than a friend would look towards another devoted friend? Did he also not see the way Aman looked at Kartik himself was wholly different? Qabid reminded himself to talk to Kartik about this soon, it would be no good to have such jealousy festering, potentially ruining not only Aman and Nasireh’s relationship but also their marriage.

As Nasireh rose another pair of footsteps ascended the stairs to the dais. Qabid knew these footsteps well. The woman that belonged to them was tall, dressed in dark free flowing robes and a sword at her waist.

“Banaz!” Kartik’s sad expression resumed its sunshine.He rose and embraced her. She embraced him back. “How have you been?”

“I have been well,” she replied pulling away. “Though I missed court. Nasireh calls me crazy for it.”

“They are right,” said Kartik.

“She,” corrected Nasireh. “I would prefer it if you use ‘she’ for today at least or until I say otherwise.”

"Forgive me," started Kartik.

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Nasireh with a smile. “I have told you countless times. None but I myself knows my own gender or determines its presentation. I know you can usually tell which pronouns to use by what I wear. But fighting in saree is not practical.”

“Speak for yourself,” Kusum retorted, taking up the dagger from Rajini’s waist. “I could slit your throat right now, the saree be damned.”

“Nonetheless,” said Kartik smiling addressing Banaz. “Your sister is right. Only you could be crazed enough to truly miss this hell hole of cutthroats, I for one did not miss court.”

“Yes,” Banaz replied with a frown, her eyes were now fixed on Aman. “I’m sure you have been too preoccupied to miss much.”

Aman regarded her with his characteristic cool languidness. Qabid knew then that their relations would be far from amiable. Aman gave Banaz a smile, perfect, calm, calculated and unfazed.

“Aman this is Banaz, Nasireh’s sister” Qabid could hear the cautiousness in Kartik’s tone. “Banaz this is my husband, Aman Tripathi, formerly merely the King of Mahan. Now he is the king of my heart and of Akhtar too.”

Banaz neared him. She was taller than Aman, who still unfazed, met her gaze with a steely one of his own. He was smiling as if he had faced a thousand like her before. Qabid would not have been surprised if he had. That was the thing about being crowned king at an early age, you learn to face your enemies or you die in the process. He had seen this in Kartik too. 

“You are shorter than I expected.” she said.

“That was exactly what Nasireh said,” said Aman his smile growing wider. “Does having high expectations for my height run in the family?”

“No, only that the marriage was so hastily done, I had thought Kartik had been thinking with his cock rather than his mind.” She regarded Aman. “I have no fear on that front now you are not like his other lovers.”

Aman seemed to flinch slightly at the mention of Kartik’s lovers. Her meaning however was clear. She was skeptical of the marriage and she did not like Aman, she even went as far as implying that Aman was not attractive. Qabid cursed her for being so brainlessly reckless with her words, in front of a foreign king. No not a foreign king. In front of _her_ king.

“Banaz…” started Nasireh ready to reprimand her little sister.

“No Nasireh she is right,” said Kartik. “With all my other lovers I _have_ been thinking with my cock. This time however I followed my heart. And my heart has lead me not only to the most unique and wonderful man in existence, but to peace and prosperity between out nations.”

_His_ meaning was also clear. The marriage political or otherwise had saved the two countries from bloodshed.

Qabid decided to intervene before things could become more heated.

“I was going to go check on the medicinal supplies. There would be many wounded in the days to come. I wondering if Aman would accompany me.”

Banaz looked at Qabid quizzically. Kartik explained.

“Aman is Qabid’s apprentice.”

“A king subordinate to a physician _is_ unheard of,” said Banaz. “Do you not have physicians in Mahan?

It was clear she was finding a way to taunt Aman. Qabid understood why. She did not trust the Mahanite, not after he father Parmesh had died. He understood but he did not condone it.

“A king is servant unto his people,” Aman replied, his Mahanite accent giving his Akhtari words an almost innocent edge. “Besides as you should know, Qabid is the greatest physician in Mahan and Akhtar. It more an honour to be his subordinate to a great Akhtari physician than to be the King of all of Mahan. If you will excuse me, I must heed his request.”

At his words Kartik ran his hand firmly through Aman’s hair, he caressed it once before kissing his forehead. In kingship every gesture meant something, Kartik’s gesture bespoke of love and support in spite of everything. It spoke of defiance against Banaz’s taunts.

“Return to me soon will you not?” He said in a voice low and sweet, his hand now cupping Aman’s cheek. He spoke the words in Mahanite. Another sign of his allegiance to Aman.

Aman grinned, took Kartik’s hands and pressed his lips lightly against the inside of his wrist. “Do not doubt it.”

With that he left with Qabid for the makeshift physicians quarters, set up in the catacombs of the arena.

“I am sorry for Banaz,” said Qabid. “Though this does not excuse her behaviour, she is only nineteen and loved her father well. She harbours no vengeance yet when Rajini killed him Banaz found it in herself to never trust a Mahanite.”

“I understand,” said Aman. “My father was killed in the same war.”

“I only hope that she overcomes her prejudice as well as you did.” Said Qabid.

Aman said nought to this but changed the topic. “How did Kartik win the tournament seven years ago?”

Qabid remembered it as if it were yesterday. He remembered Kartik then too, sixteen, brimming with unchecked wrath and losing himself slowly to the opium. In a fit of recklessness he had wanted to distract himself from his demons. He had been merciless to himself and his opponents in those days, even Qabid had not been able to stop him. Kartik’s victory had ended in the first of many overdoses, but it had not been worse to come.

Qabid did not tell Aman this. He merely said. “He faced each battle with courage well beyond his years.”

~~~

If Chaman was to blame it on anyone, he would blame it on Devika, Keshav and Rajini collectively. He was sure they had conspired this, concocted this plan. He did not know why or how but somehow they managed to persuade him to participate in the Bahaduri.

He was only participating in one event, the one of military strategy. In ancient times, before the three hundred year war, it would be a competition between different nations and their military leaders to showcase their talents. Of course during Erhan and Dilaram’s reign and during the three hundred year war this was not the case and become merely a way for the Commander-in-Chief of Akhtar to showcase the teamwork and skills of their armed troops

This year however the Mahanite too would participate against the Akhtari and Rajini had persuaded Chaman to take up the role of co-commander with her. After much arguing he had relented.

Of course Devika had insisted he ask Champa’s favour. “It is good luck for participants,” she explained. “Especially from members of their family.”

“I can ask Rajini,” said Chaman.

“I am participating in the same event,” said Rajini. “It would not work.”

“Keshav?”

“If I had something to give you, Father, I would. But I do not. Even if I did, I would not deign to give to anyone. I find these competitions brainless.”

“Then why are you here?” Asked Rajini.

Keshav did not answer her, he had resumed reading his book. Rajini continued talking.

“You should ask mother,” she said quietly.

Chaman could have sworn at Rajini’s words, she, Devika and Keshav exchanged conspiratory glances. And thus Chaman Tripathi found himself in front of his estranged wife who sat by Sunaina’s side. He could almost believe Sunaina was in on this plot too for she smiled hopefully at Chaman’s presence.

Champa regarded him curiously. She was no longer cold and indifferent. Indeed over the past few months their conversations were less strained, more casual, usually concerning their children. Even so a certain fear overcame him. The same fear he felt the time he had asked her to runaway and marry him.

“I have entered my name in the lists?” He announced after what seemed like forever.

Her eyes shot up at him with the same concern that had filled her the first time he had gone off to fight “You are too old to participate.”

Back then she had told him he was too young.

“Not in a battle of strategy,” he said. He could not hide his smile for her response told him that she still cared. “Besides you have your daughter to thank for my participation.”

“If you have not come to ask me to reprimand her then pray why have you come?”

“I was wondering if I could wear your favour,” he asked.

He expected to be rebuffed. He expected her to be indignant to throw his request in his face. He expected anger or even indifference. He did not expect her to undo the necklace from her throat and hand it to him.

* * *

Links to fics:

The first fic was written by Sid it is called [In Me Thou See'st](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25877416) based on my favourite Shakespeare sonnet. I am yet to comment but it is painfully beautiful and deals with their love in such a raw and touching way I'm in awe.

The second fic is [strings all around me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881856) by Shreya. It is a poem from Aman's POV in TGM. It deals very well with his warring emotions and his love for Kartik and renders it so masterfully I am left in awe.

The third fic is technically not a bday present but it is a present none the less it is [Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960054) by Sai. It is a poem of TGM from Kartik's perspective. It deals so beautifully with his guilt complex and his love for Aman.

(Pretty cool and weird how Shreya and Sai managed to complement each other in their poetry. Big brain moment you two had there without knowing.)

The next fic is [Cornerstones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880470) by Dhyan. If you have read TGM you have probably read [Walls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23327428/chapters/55878793) as well. It was one of the first Royalty AUs under this tag. It made us all cry. [Cornerstones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880470) in the prequel to it and showcases the epic first meeting of Kartik and Aman. It made me emotional. Also this fic is so criminally underrated it makes me mad, so read it. This fic is something I'm going to link every chapter until everyone has read it because the beauty of it and the consideration behind it made me want to deck Dhyan violently (and yes apparently Queen Fida is based off me I'm flattered beyond words, this is a Sargun insert done right).

Last but not least is[ let's rewrite our history](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576222/chapters/62068912) by Mehan. As most of you know Mehan has always been intimately involved in the creation of TGM (it is gifted to them as you can see) and I am so grateful for their contribution and for reigning in my wilder ideas and calling out my bullshit.[ LROH](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576222/chapters/62068912) It's a TGM Reincarnation AU concept that intertwines the lives of Aayush and Taharin with Kartik to Aman. It also features genderfluid Kartik. This too is painful and beautiful and dare I say it is honestly is infinitely better than TGM. In short I love it to death.


	38. The Queen of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kartik gets friend-zoned.
> 
> Also warning sexual content at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Hrtika for starting a FUCKING FAN PAGE FOR THIS FIC. IM GOING TO SHOOT YOU. THIS IS CYBERBULLYING I LOVE YOU. 
> 
> Anyway as always songs at the end of the fic. Special thanks to Dhyan for supporting me for the final scene of this. I was scared of writing this for many reason which I will reveal at the end.
> 
> Also I didn't have time to edit this chapter so like bear with the drop in quality

I don thine armour golden and fair

As thy countenance speak thine words

Your eyes doth glow full of fear

But my love, I have already spoke

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

The Bahaduri dwarfed any competition of combat ever held in Chandan. With its great magnificence however came great danger. Kartik had assured her that people no longer died in the Bahaduri. That however did nothing to assure Champa. In fact when the day came for Chaman to participate she felt that old fear rise in her, the fear she had felt whenever he had gone off into battle. It had only worsened when he got himself injured in the competition.

He had co-commanded with Rajini against Nasireh and had received a resounding victory, at the expense of having his head knocked in by Nasireh’s sword. The wound was not deep, a mere cut, but it had bled profusely and needed tending to. Thus it came to be that Champa sat in his chambers tending to the cut on his forehead. 

It was early morning, the eighth day of the Bahaduri. The day of the finals when Rajini and Nasireh were to face each other in free combat to determine a winner. 

Nasireh and Rajini were equally matched in terms of prizes. Nasireh had taken the prizes for archery, the races and spear throwing. With Rajini taking them for the competitions of the sword, wrestling and with the help of Chaman, those of strategic warfare. Ghor-Sivar, armed combat on horseback would have determined the winner between them had not Nasireh’s sister, Banaz, taken the prize.

Chaman winced as she undid the bandage from his head. 

“You are remarkably well versed in the art of healing,” he remarked.

“I am merely changing bandages; there is no artistry in this.” She placed the soiled linens in the hot water for them to be cleaned.

Initially it had been Aman who had volunteered to help change the bandages for his uncle’s wounds but had been forstalled by Kartik’s own shoulder injuries that morning, which had somehow worsened overnight. He had sent Champa his apologies and had requested that she tend to Chaman instead.

Champa could not very well object. So here she was, helping her estranged husband with his wound. 

“What possessed you to participate, old man that you are.” she scolded. 

“We have not gotten all that old,” he smiled up at her. “You are certainly as beautiful as you were when we first wed.”

It was clear the phrase had slipped from his tongue and that he had had no intention of saying it out loud. Champa felt herself blush at the memory. 

She had been engaged to another man then, a man she did not particularly care for, a man twice her age. After seven of her engagements had broken off he had been the only man that would take her. Until Chaman.

She had been resigned to her fate, as most nobles were when it came to marriage, but then she had seen Chaman, at the Phulantari. When they had danced together she found she did not want to tie herself to a man she barely knew or had the chance to love. She wanted more. She needed more.

She had told Chaman of her predicament and they had cursed the nobility for placing such an insistence on marrying young or even marrying at all. After all a marriage in Mahan was sacred, for life, it should not be forced upon anyone.

_ “Marry me instead,”  _ Chaman had insisted.  _ “We’ll run away elope, once the ceremony is done they can’t force us apart.” _

_ “You’re a prince,”  _ Champa had protested.  _ “You might lose your title.” _

_ “I don’t care.” _

And so they had done it, wearing borrowed clothes, bribing a priestess of Shamsheer, with three dunkards as their witness. Afterwards they had taken themselves to an inn, fed each other a meal of curried meat and unleavened bread before spending the night together in one of the rooms.

Of course, Shankar, the dutiful prince that he was, had noted their absence and brought them back shamefaced before King Deenanath. Instead of being punished, since there was nothing anyone could do about it, the two of them had been welcomed back in the royal family with open arms. No breath of scandal reached their ears, their marriage was only mentioned, if at all, in good natured jest.

But Champa had to agree with Chaman on one thing. They were not so old. Certainly Champa could still see the man she had married.

“I see your tongue is still as glib as it used to be.” Champa frowned. “That does not mean that you are excused from participating in that foolish competition. You could have gotten more seriously injured you-”

She stopped mid-sentence and her eyes happened to chance upwards to Chaman’s own. He looked at her as he used to. She found herself wanting to lean forward, to kiss him. But she did not. She hastened back to her work.

“How do you think Rajini will fare?” Champa asked, not liking the silence that had fallen between them. The silence that pervaded bringing many unspoken things to light. 

“She will win,” said Chaman.

“Nasireh is very good,” said Champa. “She is equal with Rajini.”

“You seem to have taken a liking to her.” said Chaman. 

“Nasireh can embroider very well, she has shown me her lehenga. I do not think I have seen such talent before.”

“Needlework and swordsmanship are two very different things.” said Chaman. 

“You are wrong, both require patience, discipline and skill.”

“I never knew you to be an expert on swordsmanship.”

“I have had to listen to Rajini speak of it for ten years,” Champa answered as she finished tying the bandage. “You were not there.”

Chaman stiffened slightly at those words. “I know. I am sorry.”

But sorry was not enough, they both knew that. What Chaman had said was not only a betrayal of her but the family. He should have been here. He was the one who could have stopped the family from breaking, from falling into the coldness, the darkness. But he had not lifted a finger. He had abandoned them all. 

These words too hung unsaid between them. 

Chaman offered her his hand. “Come I will escort you.”

Champa took his hand and together they made their way to the arena where the final final competition was to be held. All were present except Rajini and Nasireh who were no doubt getting ready for their competition. Banaz, Nasireh’s sister, was listening half heartedly to Devika. It was clear that she did not like sitting with this many Mahanite, especially those who were family to the woman who killed her father, the woman would now fight her sister. Sunaina was talking over things with Kusum while Parvaaz, Keshav and Kaali were engrossed in the new message from the spies in Rakesh’s keep.

Aman and Kartik themselves sitting closer together. Ever since Banaz’s arrival, and especially in Banaz’s presence, they seemed to be a lot more public with their displays of affection. These displays were not overt, nor did they break royal protocol. It could be as simple as Kartik making sure that the lacings of Aman’s sherwani were properly done, or Aman choosing the best portions of his dish to give to Kartik. 

Right now Aman was propping up pillows for Kartik’s shoulder to rest comfortable on the sedan seat.

It was then he noted his aunt and uncle's presence and rose to greet them.

“My apologies I was not able to tend to you today uncle,” said Aman. “Qabid was busy and Kartik’s had strained his shoulder again.”

“You should look after it more,” Champa addressed Kartik. “You do not want the wound to follow you into old age.”

Kartik gave her an ironic grin “Do not worry Umchi,” he used the Akhtari word for Aunt. “Aman has ensured I will no longer have these pains in three months' time, is that no right beloved husband of mine?”

“Shut up.” ” hissed Aman. “Besides if you stop being so  _ reckless, _ it would heal quicker.”

“Me?” questioned Kartik. “I am never reckless.”

“Yes I suppose you inhaling a whole horn of Eskabadi beer was born from a sense of elevated wisdom?”

“You should try it someday,” said Kartik. “I do not think I have ever seen you drunk. You must have a high tolerance.”

From behind him Keshav laughed “On the contrary his tolerance is terrible. You only need three glasses of wine to make him drunk.”

“Gods be good I married a lightweight.”

Aman glared at his husband but said nought for it was then that the trumpets blared. Champa and Chaman sat down on the vacant seats and watched as their daughter and Nasireh emerged from either side of the arena. They were wearing traditional Mahanite and Akhtari colours respectively, and under the spring sun they were resplendent. 

“I think I will write this into my epic,” muttered Chaman. “It’s a historic moment. It is the first time two warriors of Mahan and Akhtar have met on the final day of the Bahaduri under the banner of peace.”

“Have you thought of a title for your poem yet?” asked Champa.

“I was thinking of  _ Two Kings _ ,” admitted Chaman. “But that title has already been taken.”

“You were never very good at titles anyway,”

“Perhaps you could come up with one.”

Champa found herself grinning. She had in fact come up with half of the titles for Chaman’s poems and stories.

Down below Rajini and Nasireh took their positions in front of each other. They both got into to stance. Champa admittedly did not really know much about swordsmanship other than basic, but she could see that they were different. Nasireh’s stance was languid and easy she had chosen to fight with an axe and shield. Rajini’s was solid and fierce, her usual sword and shield at hand. 

Champa knew not to be deceived by either of their differences. The competition could go either way yet. She would alway support her daughter, but there was a certain fondness for Nasireh that could not be denied. In short she hoped no one would ask her who she would choose.

Kartik, with the help of Aman, rose from his seat.

“We gather here to determine the winner of the Bahaduri. Before us, Rajini Tripathi and Nasireh Kafur will compete. May Azarm guide the righteous winner to victory. Let the competition begin.”

At those words the drummers started to beat their drums. War music, often used when going into battle. The fight started in earnest when Rajini charged at Nasireh. The other woman deflected it with ease. Which frustrated Rajini but she kept her calm.

Nasireh attacked this time, this Rajini also deflected. They went on with their bouts of attack and defense. In all it bored Champa, she did not understand the cheers of the crowds, nor the excitement in the air, she only wished that both her daughter and Nasireh would come out unharmed. 

They were interestingly matched, Chaman pointed out at one point. Rajini had the experience and the ferocity where Nasireh had the ease and confidence of youth. These things made them equally dangerous in different ways. It was also an interesting pair because they fought with such different weapons. 

“Rajini is wearying her out,” Chaman pointed out. “Nasireh is young and reckless, she may not show it but she is growing anxious you can tell by the way her attacks are growing more desperate.”

“Is Rajini winning then?” Champa asked.

“Yes. In a match between youth and experience, experience often wins out.” 

Champa laughed “You should write that in your epic.”

“I will, if she wins. Nasireh could surprise us yet.”

Nasireh did surprise them, but not in the way Champa had expected. At one point she knocked Rajini’s sword out of her hand. It was too far away for Rajini to make a grab at it. So she put her shield up over her body in order to deflect any blows from Nasireh’s axe.

They did not come however for Nasireh had thrown down her axe. A gesture of respect, of honour. They faced each other with shields alone. There ensued a brutal and bloody battle, a battle of shields and fists that ended Nasireh flat on her back with Rajini straddled on top of her shield at her throat.

There was silence through the arena. It was the first time in three hundred years that a Mahanite had won the Bahaduri. The fact was slowly seeping into everyone’s minds. Champa was not an expert on combat but she was sure Nasireh would have won had she not thrown down her axe.  _ There is honour in this one, more than most. _

Rajini withdrew her shield and held out her hand to her fallen opponent.

When Nasireh stood tall and proud beside her the crowd cheered. They cheered not for Rajini’s win, Champa understood, but for the honour in which they treated each other. Azarm’s, the god of just warfare, was truly honoured.

Kartik and Aman rose from their seats and invited the two competitors forward. At a closer look Champa could see that Nasireh was bleeding from the nose and Rajini from the mouth.

“All hail,” said Kartik. “Rajini Tripathi, Champion of the Bahaduri!”

“All hail!” The crowd echoed “All hail!’

Kartik handed Rajini a wreath of steel. It gleamed with the fury of a thousand suns in the light. But the wreath was not for her. Rajini went to where Kusum stood, the wreath of steel was placed at her brow. 

Kartik took up the call the again. There was a warmth and a pride in his voice as he spoke. The warmth and pride of a brother.

“All hail Kusum Acharya, the Queen of Swords!”

The crowd echoed his voice. They cheered, and celebrated the victory of one Mahanite woman and the crowning of another on Akhtari soil. It was no doubt the first time this had happened in three hundred years.

As the revelry of the spectators grew in fury Champa noticed that Nasireh stood back looking at her feet. The blood from her nose dripped down to her mail, where the dragonfly glittered proudly at her chest. When she was beckoned before the kings she unhooked the token Aman had given her knelt before him.

“My king,” she said. “I was not worthy of your favour.”

She tried to hand the earring back but Aman pressed it into her hands, closing her fingers firmly around it. 

“You fought bravely and with spirit. But most of all with honour. You may have lost but in your loss was a victory in itself. You will be my champion from this day and the days to come.”

  
  


~~~

  
  


The last part of the day was dedicated to a trial by combat, where one challenged another for any wrongdoing that may have happened to them. Once both parties have consented not even the reigning monarch could invalidate the challenge.

No one had invoked this in the last fifty years, so they say, and Aman was sure no one was likely to invoke this now. So when Kartik addressed the crowd, asking if anyone sought the justice of Azarm it came as a surprise when Banaz rose. She drew her sword, came before Kartik and knelt. 

“I seek the God's justice.” she said simply.

Kartik’s serene, content features gave way to something akin to fear. “Against who?” he demanded

Banaz’s eye turn to behind him where Aman sat 

“Aman Tripathi, King of Mahan.”

Kartik stilled Aman stood straighter in his seat. He regarded Banaz with an indulgent smile. 

“How has my husband, the King of Mahan and  _ Akhtar _ wronged you?” asked Kartik, there was steeliness in his voice that Aman rarely heard. He saw Banaz flinch slightly at his tone and widened his own smile.

“His presence violates the sanctity of our religion, our culture-”

“You are mistaken,”

Aman rose from his seat, with a the practised languid motion he often used when addressing upstarts “I accept the challenge Banaz”

There was complete silence. It was so silent that Aman could hear the sands of the arena rustle in a breeze that was barely there.

“Aman-” Kartik started. 

“I accept your challenge,” Aman repeated. “Be ready within the hour.”

Before anyone could say much more Aman left for the catacombs where the warriors, the participants of the Bahaduri would ready themselves. 

As soon as he set foot in one of the cells, one of the servants brought and laid out his fighting garments and armour. He dismissed her of course. He never liked having other people help him into his clothes. The garments were familiar, he had had them ever since he was seventeen, when he had grown into his stature and build. He had always imagined he would kill Kartik in them, never in his life did he imagine fighting in an Akhtari tournament.

Aman unlaced his sherwani and cast it aside. He was halfway through undoing his undershirt when there was a knock on the door.

“It’s me Kartik.” said the voice.

“Come in,” said Aman almost instinctively.

He knew  _ exactly _ why Kartik was here. He smiled at the strangeness of it. It was usually  _ he _ who scolded Kartik for engaging in some reckless activity, not the other way around. His suspicions were confirmed when Kartik entered the room with a livid expression on his face. 

Instantly Kartik’s eyes fell in the red stain on Aman’s chest, where his name was written in during the Khan Khardesh. The dye had started to fade a little but it was still clear and concise. The stains at Kartik’s hands from the Laal Panj were now barely visible. It would only be a matter of time before they faded, just like how Kartik’s name from his chest, just like Kartik himself one day will fade away from the earth.

_ But will his memory fade? Or will he haunt me forever? _

Seeing Aman in a state of undress however served to fluster Kartik. He averted his eyes from Aman’s body so that he was looking at his eyes instead.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice had not lost its steely edge.

Aman was not sure how to answer his question. He himself did not know why he had accepted only that it felt right to do so. Instead of replying he finished undoing the laces of his undershirt and removed it.

“Turn around,” he said to Kartik. “I need to take off these trousers.”

“I have seen you in just your  _ kecchera _ before,” Kartik reminded him but he turned around none-the-less his embarrassment as palpable as his anger. “You did not answer my question.”

“Banaz wanted a fight, I will give her one.”

“What are you trying to prove by it? You are king. None would think you a coward if you had not accepted.”

_ No  _ agreed Aman  _ They would not but I myself would.  _

There was more to it than that however. He did not enjoy being called a coward, certainly, but he could live with it if he had to. 

Once again Aman did not answer him, having stripped to his kecchara he started donning the garments that he would wear under his armour. He put on a another pair of trousers, which were more form fitting. He then put on his boots. Finally he came to the upper garments he would wear underneath the mail and the armour. The word for it was the same in Mahanite and Akhtari,  _ chola _ .  It was a knee-length robe with a wide flared skirt made with panels to allow for freedom of movement. It was blue like the Mahanite flag had once been. 

“You can turn around now,” said Aman once he finished with the garments.

Kartik turned to face him. He seemed to give a start as he regarded Aman, but once again he focused his attention on Aman’s eyes.

“If you lose-” started Kartik.

“I will not,” said Aman firmly. Whatever else she may be, Banaz was still a girl of nineteen. “I only worry I may humiliate her.”

“You did not have to accept,” Kartik reiterated, now taking on the role of Aman’s attendant for he had nothing better to do. He took Aman’s chainmail from where it was laid out over the table and placed it over Aman’s body.

“I had to accept.” he replied as the chainmail was placed over him. “I had to. She is not the only one who hates me I am sure. If I cannot face her now how can I face the thousand others?”

Aman felt the familiar wait of the mail settle on his body then. Kartik did not answer him stead he took up Aman’s breastplate and greaves and started placing them onto Aman’s torso and limbs. The tale of Khilji and Parmida was recounted again in Aman’s head. He remembered helping Kartik don his own armour during the Khan Khardesh.  _ Is this what lovers do? Prepare their loved ones for the slaughter? _

Kartik worked deftly fastidiously. As if he had done this a hundred times before.  _ He is a war hero.  _ Aman reminded himself.  _ Of course he knows how to put on armour. _

When Kartik finished fastening the final part of Aman’s breast plate at his shoulder he looked into Aman’s eyes once again.

“I am worried,” he said. “About you.”

Aman could not help but laugh “You should be praying for my death, it would free you from your own.”

“I do not mean it in jest,” Kartik sounded hurt. “I am serious.”

“As am I.”

Kartik’s eyes tore themselves away from Aman’s and took up the blue sash and tied it around his waist. Somehow he seemed to know Aman’s body well, tying the sash tight enough so that his attire stayed in place but not so tight that it constricted his movements. In another life, another time, Aman could almost imagine the two of them, helping the other put on their armour to face war together. Of course that would never happen, their marriage made sure there would be no more wars to face.

It was always like this when he thought of Kartik.  _ In another world another time we could have been more. I could have been yours. _

Kartik stood back and looked at Aman once over with a smile “You look like a hero of old.”

Aman shrivelled under the praise for he did not feel like one. He had no battles to back up his looks. Kartik did however. Once again Aman felt that familiar sense of incompetency in Kartik’s presence.

“My helm” he demanded.

Kartik took the helm off the table and studied it. 

“You Mahanite have strange helms,” he remarked. He pointed to the sections near the corners of each eye slit. There were three perforations in the metal there. “Is it not dangerous?”

“Not really,” said Aman. “It is helpful with sight in a battlefield. That way you can also from the corners of your eyes rather than merely straight ahead. The perforations are too small for stray arrows or blades to pierce through. You would need excellent marksmanship for that. Even if it does go through, it will not kill you,”

“Only damage your eye completely,” Kartik agreed placed the helm on Aman’s head. “We will not have to worry about it now, no battles will be fought between us. We made sure of that.”

Aman tied the sword to his waist and picked up his shield then a thought came to him.

“Kartik?”

“Yes?”

“Would you do me the honour, as my husband and king, of letting me wear your favour?”

Kartik stood still for a few seconds pondering his request. Slowly his hands moved to the black and gold nath that he wore, the one that was his mother’s. He unclipped it from his hair and removed it from his nose.

Once again Aman found himself stunned by the rare instance of Kartik, bared of nosering or nath. It had its own barren beauty, a beauty that refused to let Aman look away.

Kartik came forward and looped the nath securely around the hilt of Aman’s sword. When he was done he looked at Aman again. He had the same focused expression he wore when he wrote poetry. An expression that almost sent Aman to his knees. Almost. 

“Be careful.” whispered Kartik. “Promise me.”

His insistence stopped the rising taunts from making their way to Aman’s tongue instead all he could say was “I will, I promise.”

The air around them was stifled with words unspoken. Aman tried to smile, he hoped Kartik could see his smile even under the helm.

“Will I be disqualified if I use my teeth?” he asked jokingly. 

When Kartik burst out laughing the shadows that had stifled them were now dispelled. 

“And what become a dog?” Kartik shook his head. “They are our greatest weapons. But I do not think Banaz would appreciate it.”

With a final pat at Aman’s shoulder Kartik left the cell.

The time after that was nought but a blur. 

The next thing he could remember clearly was standing in the sands of the arena, Banaz before him, glaring at him as if she were to kill him. He did not doubt it. He did not doubt her anger, nor did he fear it. He knew how this kind of fury consumed, blinded. He knew how to use this to his advantage.

He looked up once at the raised dais. He saw his family. He saw his friends. He saw Kartik. Kartik most of all. He saw the way the other man held himself. He could see the distress in his every movement. 

_ I will be fine.  _ He wanted to tell him. But he could not. He was not near enough.

He focused his attention on Banaz instead.

“If you die,” she said. “I will not regret it.”

“No,” agreed Aman. “I am sure though, that my husband will not let you forget it.”

When Kartik announced the beginning of the competition, he let her attack first. He let her think she was winning. He let the blindness and fury consume her. And he used it to his advantage.

Strikes that were once calculated turned, furious on her front. He could taste her frustration and he revelled in it. When her guard was down, he unleashed all that was in his power. 

Not once did he bleed. Not once did he fall. Not once did he show her mercy.

As a king he knew when to show mercy and when not to. This was not one of those moments.

In the end he held both their swords at her neck, her temple bleeding from a light wound. He was unmarked, unstained, unwounded. He waited. Then it came.

She held up her hands in defeat. But there was a newfound admiration in her eyes. Aman knew then why he fought.

~~~

Banaz’s defeat earned her a Lordship over Khorshid and so the city feasted under starlight. Aman sat by his side at the high table and Kartik could not help but compare it to the last time they had sat together like this at their wedding. Back then Aman had been sullen, their conversation sparse, polite. 

Now Aman was grinning, his hair still slightly wet from taking a bath. He was joking with Kartik, distracting him. He was trying to steal one of Kartik’s sweets from under his nose. 

Kartik did not mind, he was more amused by the fact that Aman thought he would not notice. In moments like this Kartik could almost imagine they were truly married, truly in love. In moments like this he would wonder how it came to be that they could almost be friends, on the cusp of lovers, rather than enemies. He could not account for it. He suspected neither could Aman. 

“I am glad Devika’s plan worked,” said Aman, sliding a honeyed sweet away from Kartik’s plate, he pointed at Chaman and Champa who sat talking and laughing with each other. “They were so cold and distant only a month ago.”

Devika’s plan was something they had all been involved in. She and Nasireh had concocted it together. Rajini and Keshav were to convince Chaman to participate. He was to ask for Champa's favour. Nasireh was to injure him in their mock battle, and Aman was to use Kartik as an excuse not to tend to him.

“I am glad,” said Kartik. “It is good to see them together, what drove them apart?”

Aman’s smile faltered. He did not answer him. Kartik suspected the memory was deep rooted in the pain of Shankar’s death. 

_ My fault  _ he concluded.  _ The fault is mine. _

Luckily then Devika came to the head of the table with a glass of wine in her hand. 

“You fought well,” she remarked to Aman. 

In the past few months Devika and Aman had formed a sort of friendship. It was strange to think that four months ago, Devika had practically urged Kartik not to marry him.

“Thank you,” said Aman. “I hope Banaz is quite sated.”

“She is an arrogant hothead,” came the voice of Nasireh. She sat down beside Aman. She was wearing a russet and gold anarkali, the gold in her hair stood out. “But she knows defeat when she sees it, and if I am not wrong you have earned her respect. What devil possessed you to accept her challenge?”

“Pride.” Kartik offered. “You will come to learn my dear Nasireh, our Aman Tripathi is proud to the point of stupidity.”

“Not proud,” said Aman. “I garnered her character and knew exactly what was to be done to stop her from pouring insults she would regret later in life. I am a good judge of character in that aspect.”

“Not as good as I,” said Devika.

“I doubt it,” came Aman’s reply.

There was a wicked gleam in Devika’s eye. She smiled at Aman sweetly.

“Let’s make a game of it then.” said Devika. “I assume something about you. If I get it wrong I drink if I am right you drink. The same goes if it is your turn?”

Kartik grinned. “Can I join?”

Devika shook her head. “You may need to help Aman to his rooms, besides you are horrible at this game.”

Kartik remembered the nights they spent playing this very game. She was right. He would not survive the first round.

Devika poured the wine for both her and Aman. 

“You start,'' she said.

Aman took the wine glass in his hand and smiled slyly at Devika “Your parents are separated.”

Devika’s self confident smile wavered, nonetheless she gracefully took a gulp of her wine. “Kartik was your first lover.”

Aman grinned “Drink.”

Kartik did not like being reminded about Aman’s countless, abandoned, one-night lovers, but he had to admit, seeing Devika being bested at her own game was amusing.

Devika drank again.

“Even I could have told you that,” said Nasireh laughing.

It was Aman’s turn “You have never learned to fight.”

“Drink,” said Devika. “I did learn, I was terrible at it.” she studied Aman for a minute. “You had acne as a teenager.”

Aman drank and Kartik tried to imagine a younger version of Aman with pimples. 

“You do not enjoy hunting.” said Aman.

Devika drank. “I hate it especially when Nasireh is there.” she smiled “You have never broken a bone.”

Aman drank. His wine glass was emptied and Nasireh filled it for him.

The game went on and Kartik learned many new things about his husband. For one he did not know that Aman had once set his mother’s saree aflame, neither did he realise that Aman’s favourite book was a comedy. But at the price of these new pieces of information, Aman’s voice became slurred. His features reddened. He was losing focus of the game and eventually found more interest in playing with Kartik’s hair.

Kartik did not mind the slightest. In his drunken state Aman let go of all inhibitions and said what was one his mind. 

“Your hair is so soft,” Aman remarked. “It’s like a baby duck.”

“It’s almost as if he’s feeling it for the first time.” said Nasireh grinning. “Bless his soul, I did not realise only three glasses of wine would do him in.”

Kartik was about to answer when Aman’s finger ran down from Kartik’s hair to his neck. Kartik felt his jaw tighten at the touch.

“I kissed you there once,” Aman said. “Like this.”

He kissed that spot on his neck again and ran his lips down until they were the base of Kartik’s throat. His teeth grazed his collarbones, his tongue echoing their movement. Kartik was not sure whether to relish this moment or not. He tried to look ahead, past Devika and Nasireh’s mortified yet amused expression.

When he felt his body reacting to Aman’s kisses he knew it simply could not continue. Red faced he pushed the other king off. He did not want him to know, that a part of him did not mind, that a part of him welcomed this, even in his drunken state.

“Not here,” he hissed furiously. “Not now, and certainly not while you’re like this.”

Aman seemed disappointed at the words but he kept his distance from Kartik. “You didn’t mind it then.”

“There weren’t so many people. And you weren’t drunk.”

“There were  _ many _ people,” Aman glared at him. “I’m not as drunk as you were and you’ve done worse when you were drunk. You almost told everyone  _ everything _ about us. I could not look my mother in the eye for days.”

“ _ Saying _ what happened between us in front of everyone is not the same as  _ doing it _ in front of everyone.”

“Is this a reference the infamous Eskabadi beer scandal?” asked Nasireh.

“The one an only,” confirmed Devika. 

“It was nowhere near a scandal,” Kartik protested hotly. “Though  _ this _ might end up as such if I do not take him away.”

“Please no, he’s far too amusing like this,” said Devika. “Less of a prick.”

“Maybe you should tell him that when he is sober.” suggested Kartil.

He stood and proceeded to hoist Aman onto his shoulders. Aman took the opportunity to bury his head in Kartik’s chest.

“You smell nice,” he muttered. “Like a sweet. I like to eat sweets.”

“Yes I know you do.” Kartik said fondly, as Devika let out muffled laughter, he guided Aman away from the banquet into the palace. The sounds of the banquet dimming as he went. 

“Is that why you always make sure there are hazelnut ones at every meal?” asked Aman sweetly. “I think they are my favourite after the cashew ones from home. I could marry you for that alone.”

“We’re already married.” Kartik reminded him gently. 

“Oh yes. I remember. Big wedding. Many people, very important.” Aman frowned. “Was it held in Kashatr or Balkar?”

“Both. Kashatr is a village in Balkar.”

“So it is.” Aman paused. “Geography was my worst subject, but I got better.”

“I think you got worse.” Kartik humoured him.

“You are being very rude.”

“And you are not?”

Aman considered this question “Sometimes I think I treat you too cruelly.”

_ I am used to cruelty.  _ Was Kartik’s answer but he did not say it out loud. Aman mistook his silence for something else.

“Are you angry at me?” he seemed saddened by the notion, so sad that Kartik found himself wanting to comfort him, assure him.

“No, not all,” he answered. “I was only thinking.”

“Of?”

“Nothing important.”

Aman studied his face and finally he said “Alright.”

He did not speak for the rest of the journey so Kartik focused his attention on keeping Aman upright. It was an easy task considering Aman was smaller and lighter than he was. The difference in their stature made Kartik briefly wonder how Aman had managed to carry them into their rooms when he had taken the horn of Eskabadi beer. He was about to ask Aman, but then realised Aman was most likely not in the best state to give an explanation.

Once they were in their room he placed Aman atop the bed. Aman sat with almost childlike innocence smiling wistfully as he studied Kartik unabashedly and for once Kartik did not feel like he was trying to figure out which part of him he wanted to cut open first.

“You’re beauty- I mean beautiful. You’re beautiful.” said Aman. “Your smile is beautiful. It’s my favourite.”

“Thank you Aman,” said Kartik. The words though spoken under the influence of alcohol stirred affection in Kartik.

“Why did the gods make you beautiful?” Aman said quietly. “I hate it sometimes. You know that day we were near the water, in the river. The Godsblade, I could not help but look. And…”

There were tears in his eyes now. Kartik sat beside him and placed his hand at the nape of his neck, stroking his hair in rhythmic motions. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked soothingly. “Did I do something to offend you? I apologise.

“My body reacted...in ways it should not have. I could not restrain myself.” Aman hung his head low, the tears spilled from his eyes. His shame was palpable. “I was no better than a whore. I dishonoured my father’s memory.”

_ Whore. Dishonour. _ The two words plagued Kartik. For Aman being with Kartik would be shameful. Kartik understood, he never felt more despicable, more hateful in his life.

The incident by the water made sense now. So did Gabru’s reaction. Kartik put an arm around his husband’s shoulder.

“Aman,” said Kartik. “It is not your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

“I should not be thinking like  _ that _ . Not about you. Least of all about you.”

The words cut deeper than they should have. “You should sleep Aman. It has been a long day and you have had too much to drink.” he paused. “Are you feeling sick by any chance?”

“No,” said Aman. He looked back at Kartik. “Why do you care about me so much? Why? I’m going to kill you and you still care.”

_ Because I love you.  _ He wanted to say but he did not. Instead he merely said. “Let’s get you changed into something more comfortable.”

“Kartik?”

“Yes?”

“You know the first time I heard from you, the first time you sent me that letter. I thought you were the stupidest man alive.”

“Well there is no change there. You remind me of this fact at least three times a day.”

“No let me speak,” insisted Aman. “I thought you were stupid for trying to bridge the divide, for marrying me and putting your life on the line. But…” he trailed off.

“But?”

“I realised it was not stunipity.”

“I think you mean stupidity.”

“Same thing.” huffed Aman. “Will you let me speak?”

“No one is stopping you.”

“I realised it was kindness. You have a big heart. All you do, you do for others and somehow that kindness never left not once. Not even with me.” 

Aman’s eyes met his and Kartik found he was stunned to silence. 

“I think you're my best friend.” Aman whispered. “I never had a friend before, not a proper one. Rajini and Keshav  _ have _ to be my friends.”

“Aman…”

“No, no listen. You did not have to, but you chose to do it anyway. I may not be your best friend, you have Devi, Parvaaz and Nasireh. But your mine, you’re my best friend.” he paused. “I will miss you when you die. I will miss you so much. I think I will miss you as much as I miss father.”

Kartik braved a smile “You don’t have to kill me then, you could always stop. We could give each other a chance to...to be something more”

It was an offer, an opportunity to let go, to move on. 

“But I have to, I have to kill you.” Aman was weeping now. “You don’t understand I have to. I have to for my father.”

Kartik embraced him then pulled him in close, he let the other man sob into his chest, let out his emotions, the pent up anger and confusion. The words killed him more than Aman’s sword ever would. But he wanted to comfort him anyway. 

“I know,” he told him. “I know.”

~~~

The feasting would go on all night, that was to be expected. The events of the day ensured that neither Kusum or Rajini had no time to go to her rooms. It was expected of the Champion of the Bahaduri and the Queen of Swords to be front and centre of every celebration since the win. 

It was only now that the two of them had found relief. Rajini had not even found the time to bathe, she still smelled of sweat, sand, the sharpness of metal.

It was all together not a terrible smell, not in Kusum’s opinion, especially since it reminded her of the time when they used to spar together. But Rajini had been self-conscious about it the whole evening so much so that Kusum could sense her relief as she went to her room.

As always Kusum had followed her. She spent an hour or so with Rajini every night before she slept. But today, tonight, she wanted more than what an hour could bring.

“Let it be known,” said Rajini. “The Akhtari sure know how to fight. Never have a I met a more worthy opponent than Nasireh.”

Kusum sighed “It may have been exciting for you but I was worried she would kill you.” then she grinned. “I thought I was your favourite opponent.”

“Worthy and favourite are two very different things.” Rajini grinned at her. “Nasireh has honour and skill beyond anyone I have seen. I would have been an honour to lose to her. With you however honour and skill do not matter. You could stab me in the back and I would still love you.”

The words made Kusum think of how Rajini would react if she knew. But no it was not time to think like that. Rakesh was gone for now. When he came back she would deal with him. 

“I hope I never have the occasion to stab you in the back,” Kusum replied, not without a hint of devilry. “It’s a fine back.”

She relished in the sight of Rajini turning red. Kusum had only seen portions of it, in the rare instances when Rajini wore a saree. It was thickly muscled and well defined, Kusum often had a hard time looking away.

Rajini did her best to ignore Kusum’s remark as she unstrapped the sword from her waist and placed it on the table. Kusum echoed her movements, she removed the steel wreath from her brow and placed it beside Rajini’s sword. Her intentions were clear. And Rajini knew it too.

At Kusum’s gesture her hand had caught onto the lacings of her armour. Kusum laughed at her predicament.

“Are you going to stand there laughing?”

“Would you prefer it if I helped you out of it?” 

Rajini rolled her eyes, but she let Kusum come and help her undo it anyway. Once she had stripped down to her shift she turned to Kusum.

“I am going to bathe.”

“And I am going to join you.” said Kusum. “The baths are big enough for two, don’t you think?”

Rajini mumbled something that sounded like a mixture of assent and cursing as she went to the baths. Kusum took this opportunity to undress herself to the cotton shift she wore under her clothes. She entered the baths.

Rajini sat in the waters, half submerged, her eyes closed, her body wholly relaxed. Moments like these, unguarded, languid, were rare for Rajini so Kusum watched her for a few moments. As if sensing her presence, Rajini opened her eyes.

“I thought you were going to join,” she asked

“I thought you would never ask.”

“As if you need an invitation to do anything.”

Kusum grinned and stepped into the bath. The water was warm and luxurious, against her tired skin. It relaxed her muscles. She took her place opposite Rajini.

They were both wearing their shifts but that did not do much in terms of modesty. The cotton clung to Rajini’s body, in a way that made Kusum ache for her. 

_ What’s stopping me?  _

The answer came to her like falling starlight.  _ Nothing. _

She waded forward to her lover, her friend, her sun and her flower. She waded forward until she could almost feel the other woman’s body against hers.

She looked directly into Rajini’s eyes, both of them. Then with the ferocity that she often fought Rajini with she kissed her. Her kiss was insistent. Urgent. Earnest. 

Kusum;s hands found themselves in her hair. The kiss deepened as Rajini’s hands clasped at her hips bringing their bodies closer in the water.

Kusum ran her hand down her lover’s back to undo the laces of Rajini’s shift. It was then that Rajini pulled away.

“What is it?” asked Kusum. “Did you not-”

“I-,” she paused. “The last time I had been with a woman was ten years ago. I am not sure-”

“Are you scared?” asked Kusum. 

Rajini’s eyes met hers. “A little.”

Kusum ran a thumb along her jaw. “We do not have to do this. Not tonight.”

“I want it.” Rajini insisted. “I want you.”

Kusum leapt out of the bath. She took one of the towels from the rack. Slowly she peeled the wet shift from her body and dried herself off. 

She glanced at Rajini who was watching and she could not help but compare it to the way that Rakesh would look at her.

When Rakesh had looked at her it was like he was seeing her body, the object of his lust. He looked at her the way a jackal would look at a piece of meat. Predatory, possessive. 

But when Rajini looked at her she did not feel violated or belittled. When she looked at her it seemed that she was not seeing Kusum, but her soul. Rajini looked at her as if she should be venerated, worshipped. 

“Bathe first,” she told her. “I will be waiting.”

The wait she knew did not really take all that long. But it was excruciating nonetheless. 

This time, when Rajini emerged from the baths, dried, smelling of roses, without her shift, it was she who made the first move to kiss Kusum, slowly and sensually. It left her wanting. Kusum matched her lover’s longing with her own, hoping to fulfill the ever growing craving. 

It only worsened when instead of bringing her in closer, Rajini pushed her onto the bed. 

It was not something she had expected, but she had to admit it was not something she minded either. 

For someone who was shy, for someone who had once thought Kusum too sacred to touch, Rajini sure knew how to make her beg. Kusum could remember distinctly where Rajini had touched her, as if she had marked her like a bloodstain. 

But the stains of her touch did not make Kusum feel soiled. She was incandescent, ethereal, glowing. She felt reborn, remade from the light of all the stars in the sky.

That night as she lay in Rajini’s bed, her face nestled in the crook of her neck, Kusum knew exactly where her loyalties lay.

* * *

Anyway y'all should follow the [fan page](https://www.instagram.com/the_glass_mosaic_fanpage/) on insta. It's I'm in love.

[Tera Year Hoon Main](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EatzcaVJRMs) (from Sonu Ke Titu Ki Sweet Kartik Aryan can suck it but this song is the bomb)- for when Kartik and Aman have that heart to heart when Aman is drunk.  
  


[What a Heavenly Way to Die](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRGBtvF70XI) (Troye Sivan) - for Sunflower Smut

[Melt My Heart to Stone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vy0jd0X3bnU) (Adele)- Also for drunk Aman

[Nancy Mulligan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFlZXlfda6Y) (Ed Sheeran)- Chaman and Champa

[Conversations in the Dark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHombWueWLc) (John Legend) - Sunflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very hesitant to write the last scene. I am little disappointed too. As a wlw I think its important for wlw to have as much of the spotlight as mlm. I am disappointed mostly bc I know I will write the Karman one better when the time comes around. But this is my first time writing wlw in a sexual setting, it felt a little like baring my soul and thus I could not truly be called an objective writer when I wrote it. It felt too personal for me to go in depth (which is weird I get it but it's what happened). But I hope none the less the emotions shone through.


	39. Two Fools, One Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway thank you to Sai for yet again another excellent poem. It shall be linked below.

Long ago it had welcomed two kings

And it welcomes them again

The glittering city they called Shafaq

Was never free from the bloody stain

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Their two months in Khorshid ended surprisingly well. But it was, Kartik knew, the last time he would see his city again. He could not help but feel saddened by it.

As he left Khorshid’s walls he had whispered “Hamchal Parashe.” _Your soul is in my heart._ The phrase attributed to lovers. And it was true, the souls of these people, his people, made an impression in heart, a stain that no one else could remove. He did not want to leave his home, his city, his people. He did not want to think of it as the last time. But he knew his people will be in good hands. Aman’s hands. That made saying goodbye less painful.

But he could not ruminate on the loss of his city for long. New reports from Kaali’s spies brought new things to light. Mandhav had taken twenty or so warriors and had left Dasmesh’s keep. They were sure of an ambush at some point on their journey to Shafaq.

Nasireh had been told of this, not the whole suspected plot, the less they knew the better, but of the situation with Mandhav. They had taken it upon themselves to coordinate the soldiers anticipate and protect the two kings specifically from any harm. It was something Kartik admired about Nasireh, whatever they did, they did passionately. 

Banaz was much the same. She had taken up lordship over Khorshid with ease, grace and an iron fist. It was another reason why Kartik felt like Khorshid was in good hands.

It was a four day journey to Shafaq from Khorshid. Three of those days had already passed, they were thus on the final stretch of the journey and the grassy semi desert plains of Akhtar had given way to forests, mountainous more rocky land. 

Still however there was no sign of Mandhav, Kartik almost thought the suspected ambush may have been some sort of ruse. To distract them, divert their attention away from something bigger. It was either that or the attack would come at any minute. 

Kartik watched as Nasireh and Aman rode side by side. The feeling of intense jealousy was starting to subside a little, mostly thanks to Qabid. 

The old physician, along with Sunaina, Kusum, Rajini, Champa, Keshav and Parvaaz had left early for Shafaq in order to oversee the preparations for their arrival. Before he had left Qabid had pulled Kartik aside.

“I know you love him,” he had said. “But do not let this jealousy encroach you.”

“You are mistaken,” Kartik had replied. He was about to explain himself but Qabid had cut him off with a withering glare. 

“I have known you since you were a boy, try as you might you cannot hide this from me,” Qabid had sighed. “Check it, rein it in before it becomes poison. What Aman and Nasireh have is nought but friendship. They have much in common, is it so surprising that they became friends?”

There was no point in hiding it from Qabid, the petty feelings that had started to take root in his heart 

“He named Nasireh his champion.” to Kartik’s ears it had sounded almost as if he were complaining. “For now and forever more.”

He had found himself echoing Aman’s words. 

“Forgive me if I am wrong,” started Qabid. “But was that not also what your mother had said to Parmesh? Or have you forgotten that Parmesh, along with being Commander-in-Chief of Akhtar’s armies was also known as the Queen’s champion?”

That had made Kartik reconsider. 

“Did you think your mother was unfaithful to your father because of her friendship with Parmesh?”

“No,” Kartik had managed out.

“Then let this jealousy go, it serves no purpose.”

Kartik was trying his best. Sometimes it would leave, sometimes it would linger. Today it decided to leave him, he was able to enjoy their talk on Akhtari and Mahanite musicians, though Kartik did not understand much in the way of musical composition. 

Because of his lack of participation his mind often wondered to other less savoury thoughts. One of those being what Nasireh would do if he died. He was sure Aman would not hide exactly how Kartik would die. Would Nasireh forgive him for that? 

Nasireh saw that Kartik was observing them. Today he sported a slight beard, which he often left unshaven on his more masculine days. 

“You’re unusually quiet,” he remarked. 

“I’m listening,” Kartik offered. 

“You miss Khorshid,” said Nasireh. “You’ve been like this for the whole journey. It's a wonder you survived the two months in Mahan.”

“This is different, this is the last time.”

“Not the _last_ time surely,” said Nasireh. “You will come back someday. Aman is yet to see the Gulnaziri with us after all.”

Kartik could not find it in himself to answer him. He wondered once again what Nasireh would say if he knew the truth, if his affection for Aman would be altered by it. 

“I see my talking is of no use,” said Nasireh. “I shall let you two speak, I need to make sure the guards are in order.”

Nasireh proceeded to turn his horse around and made way for the next segment of supplies and guards chosen to oversee them. Aman turned to Kartik and slowed his horse down until Kartik caught up. 

“You have been unusually quiet,” he said. “Is it because-”

Aman stopped himself from speaking. But Kartik knew what he was going to say. _Is it because you’ll be dead in two months?_

Aman looking at him now with the same concerned that had coloured his features during the Phulantari when he seemed to know that Kartik’s mind was wondering to much more unsavoury darker thoughts. Kartik understood Aman’s struggle, his drunken confession had belied so much. They never talked about, Aman did not remember that night, but Kartik could still hear his words.

_Whore._

_Dishonour._

Those words made Kartik almost glad that Aman would kill him. It made him feel ashamed. It did not surprise him that Aman had developed a semblance of attraction, their marriage, their close proximity in everything they did made it only natural. But that attraction, the lust, had caused Aman to call himself the most terrible names. Names Kartik would not even call himself, even in his darkest hours. 

He had taken care ever since then to ensure that anytime he changed it was from behind a screen. He had even taken to wearing a shirt when he went to sleep, though in the late spring and the approaching summer months it made him uncomfortable. 

But there were other words.

_I think you’re my best friend._

Those words killed Kartik, it killed him to know that Aman considered himself friendless, considered his relationship with his cousins a burden. Yet there was something else in those words, something that stirred a lightness, a giddiness in Kartik’s chest, because it was acknowledgement that there was hope for them, slim that it was. 

Kartik turned his gaze to the road before them. 

“We should have a race.” suggested Aman, when Kartik looked up the Mahanite king still wore the hsi face of concern. “To see who is the better horseman.”

“Usually it is me who makes the idiotic suggestions but you seemed to have taken up my role.”

“Someone has to do it,” Aman grinned. “It’s not all that idiotic, it’s just a race.”

“We can be ambushed at any minute. You know the first person Mandhav will go for is you, then me. We will be fine targets racing through the middle of the forest with no guards in sight.”

“He has not turned up yet. I do not think he will.”

Moments like this made Kartik realise just how young Aman truly was. Twenty-one, three years younger than himself, and without the experience of battle. He did not truly know how an enemy would strike. He did not know the dangers of an ambush. How could he? He never spent days on the march weary eyed, shivering in the rain, the hard gruel roiling in his stomach praying that he would live through the night.

It made him think of Parmesh on the first night of the march. How the other man had stayed with Kartik in his tent, tending to his fears as Qabid would tend to his wounds, assuring him that they would get out of this alive, _together._ But Parmesh had lied, Parmesh was dead, he had put his life on the line for Kartik and he died for it.

“No Aman.” the words had barely escaped his tongue when Aman urged Sapir forward into a gallop. Kartik had no choice but to follow after him. He hoped the guards had enough sense to follow after both of them.

The plan was to overtake Aman and check him before he got any further away. But the truth was Aman had an edge when it came to horse racing. For one his slight built ensured the horse would not carry as much weight, for another his horse Sapir, was a powerfully built white stallion. That was not to say Kartik’s own mount, his chestnut mare Yaara, was not magnificent but Sapir’s powerful build ensured more speed. 

Kartik raced through the trees after him, praying that he would not lose sight of the other king. 

Of course the gods barely deigned to answer his prayers. In a matter of seconds Aman was out of his sight. 

Kartik urged Yaara to go further, but it was no use, Yaara’s energy had already been spent in the first few legs of the impromptu race. 

But Kartik was determined to find him, stop him, bring him back before things got awry.

“Fucking fool,” he cursed under his breath, following the trail of hoof prints that Sapir had left behind. 

Being powerfully built had its disadvantages, or in Kartik’s case advantages, Sapir’s track’s freshly hewn were clear cut, precise. He was sure that at this rate Aman would grow tired and he would able to catch up with him.

But soon the trail stopped abruptly. Not truly abruptly, from the look of the hoof marks, it was clear that Aman had turned around a few times in confusion. 

But no, if that were the case there would be hoof marks leading away from here. 

“Aman?” he called out. “Aman?!”

No response, he could not have gone far however surely?

“Aman!” he called out again. “If this is a joke it’s sure as fuck not a very funny one.”

There was no response. He could feel the blood drain from his face. His heart started beating furiously, his breathing became rapid. 

He turned his horse around looking through the trees, looking for a sign. And he found it. A glint of silver. Kartik rode to its direction. It was the sapphire and silver earring that he had gifted Aman during their engagement. 

Aman had worn it today on a whim and he was very scrupulous about his jewelry. It was not like him to lose it.

Suddenly it struck him.

There was no trail because someone had tampered with it. Aman had deliberately dropped the earring the earring, in order to let Kartik know the direction in which his captors had taken him.

~~~

They had not killed him yet. That was something. Aman was sure more than anything now that what Mandhav wanted not simply revenge. If that had been the case he would have killed him as soon as he had captured him. 

He had been unable to fight them. How could he when the attack had come seemingly from nowhere. He had been knocked off his horse and had his weapons taken before he could register what had happened to him. They had tied his hands behind his back, forcing him to walk until the reached this clearing. They had covered their trails. 

Though Aman had not been able to fight back when they had attacked, he had managed to take off his earring before they had tied his hands. He had dropped it when they had forced him to walk, hoping that Kartik would find it. He hoped that the other king had enough sense to bring more soldiers with him.

He had been forced to his knees. And as if they still feared him, Mandhav’s soldiers had their swords drawn. 

Aman had maintained perfect silence as Mandhav stood before him questioning him incessantly on the whereabouts of the others. Aman had given him no word or indication. He was proud of himself for it but the gods only knew when Mandhav decided to dispense with the talk and result to torturing it out of him.

“You have made this far easier than I anticipated,” he said. “What were you doing alone in the woods without a guard?”

Aman wished he had listened to Kartik, listened to his warnings. He wished he had not run off in the pursuit of trying to cheer Kartik up. It was admittedly, not one of his brighter moments.

“What are you too proud to talk to a childhood friend?” 

Aman looked straight into his eyes. _You are nothing like the Mandhav of my childhood, the Mandhav who saved my life._ The other man seemed to be taken aback by Aman’s gaze. He seemed to take an unconscious step back. 

“You think me too lowly,” Mandhav continued his one sided conversation. “You do not even deign to speak to me.”

Aman smiled at him. The smile seemed to spark a sort of rage in Mandav.

Still Aman remained silent. Mandhav raised Aman up by the collar of his now soiled sherwani bringing their faces closer. Aman thought him uglier up close. He also smelled like piss.

“If you do not speak,” he hissed. “I will cut out your husband's tongue and hand it to you. That should teach you to speak.”

Aman smiled. They both knew what the smile meant. He would not be able to cut out Kartik’s tongue if Aman did not tell him where he was. His threat was an empty one. The roll of thunder without the lightning to support it. 

So Aman did not speak. It came as no surprise when Mandhav raised his fist and connected it with his the side of Aman’s face.

“Speak!” he demanded. 

There was blood in Aman’s mouth he could taste the bitterness, the salt. His eyes were unfocused. For a moment it felt as if his soul had left his body. But he would not utter a word to this man. He would gladly be beaten to a pulp before he spoke.

“Speak damn you!” cried out Mandhav.

“Raise a hand against him one more time,” came a voice, low and unchecked as a storm, from the trees. “And I will cut it off.”

Through his blurry vision Aman was able to make out the figure of a man on horseback. He was able to make out the glint of his sword in the dappled sunlight of the forest grove. The man stood tall and proud on his mount. The stature of a true warrior, a hero straight from the legends.

As his vision cleared Aman was able to make him out. Kartik. He had come to save him. But he was alone.

_You fool_ Aman thought _You beautiful, brave, damned stupid fucking fool._

Mandhav turned towards the vouce, seeing that it was none other than Kartik he drew Aman in front of him and pressed a knife to his throat.

“Take one step further and I will slit your lover’s throat.”

“He is my husband, not my lover,” Kartik corrected. “What do you want from us? We gave you a keep, lands, titles, gold…”

Mandhav's laughter then was like the crackling of wildfire “I want more than you can possibly imagine.”

“Really,” Kartik grinned. “I have quite a vast imagination, try me.”

“I want my revenge,” he said. “I want both the kingdoms.”

Aman could not help but speak then. “It was you then the one who attacked Kashatr. The one who tried to bring both countries to war. Why? So you can rise as king from the ashes. If that is the case kill me and be done with it.”

“So the Little King has found his tongue,” Aman could hear the amusement in his voice. “Tell me Aman, where would be the fun in that? Besides gaining the throne by murder has proven to be tenuous through otu hsitory. I would rather _you_ give up your kingdoms, kneel before me, then I will kill you.”

Mandhav knew the way they both cared for their nations. To hand their kingdom over to a tyrant while they were still alive would be a humiliating act of treason. 

  
“Never,” Kartik’s voice was nought but a whisper, but it echoed through the trees, he raised his sword in defiance.

The knife’s sharp edge pressed deeper into Aman’s neck, he felt a sharp pain then, a warm droplet of blood ran down his throat, but he did not care. 

“Kneel or I will kill him.”

Aman noted with pride that Kartik’s stance did not falter, nor did his sword waver. But his eyes met Aman’s as if he were weighing the lives of thousands against his. As if Aman was precious to him.

“I would rather die,” said Aman softly. “I would rather die than see you kneel before this bastard.”

Kartik did not need his encouragement but Aman gave it anyway. He meant it in earnest. All they had built together all they had done would be for nought if Kartik knelt. It was not just words of defiance, they were words of incitement. A call to fight. 

As soon as Aman had said those words Kartik urged his mare Yaara into a gallop and made his way towards the group of soldiers that surrounded Mandhav and Aman. He had the advantage of horseback but the gods knew how long that would last. He was after all one man against twenty.

None of them had expected Kartik to risk Aman’s life like this. But Aman understood. You could be a king but your life would never be worth thousands. This confusion allowed Aman to knock Mandhav backwards. Hands stilled tied behind his back Aman rose and raced away from his captor. 

He needed to get out of these bonds somehow, he needed to get his hands on a sword. He needed to help Kartik or die trying.

The half the soldiers were too preoccupied with Kartik to notice Aman. A quarter had fled. The five that remained drew their swords. After all what was one man, a man bound, against five armed? Aman’s eyes however caught onto the sight of his sword, gold sheathed in blue discarded by a tree. All he had to do was keep walking backwards, distract them until he reached them.

“It’s hardly a fair fight,” he told them, stepping backwards towards his goal. 

“Surrender,” one of them suggested.

Aman grinned “I accept your surrender.”

Another moment of confusion, another opportunity for Aman to act quickly. He picked up his sword. Then he realised his predicament. He was unable to get it out of its sheath, and if he did manage to somehow shake it off, it would be a whole other ordeal to cut through the cords. 

He stood uselessly with a sheathed sword held behind his back as the five soldiers pressed their advantage. 

“Aman!” Kartik’s voice cut through the commotion. “Get the fuck out of there!”

“I can’t do much with my hands tied behind my back!” he shouted back. 

After a bout of cursing, Kartik abandoned his fight with the other men and made his way towards Aman. He leapt off Yaara and hastily came to Aman’s aid, cutting through the cords with his own sword.

“Now get out! Call Nasireh and the others-”

Aman unsheathed his sword; he did not bother holding Kartik’s gaze. He did not have to. He focused himself on the approaching enemy.

“And leave you here to fight alone, on foot. No chance in hell Kartik Singh.”

The soldiers had by now formed a ring around them. Years of training formations and battle techniques made both of them react instinctively. They took their places back to back, they would be each other’s eyes, each other’s shield, each other’s protection. And if they died they would die together. 

Kartik’s thoughts seemed to mirror Aman’s own. “If we die, I want to say…” he trailed off. 

“Say what?” Aman demanded.

“It was an honour to have known you,” Kartik said it hastily, as if he had wanted to say something else.

“It is an honour for me too.”

Aman found it rather underwhelming for what was possibly their final moments. But he let it slide. The sentiment was there and it was not entirely untrue on his side. Besides, despite what all the grand epics had to say, the midst of battle was not exactly the best time to wax poetic about someone else. 

Aman focused his attention on the soldiers around them. The best thing to do was to wait for them to attack and deal with every blow as it came. Mandhav was nowhere to be seen. Aman had never taken him for a coward. But for today it seemed he was wrong about many things.

They attacked one by one, in pairs. They seemed intent on wearing them down.The first pair made a charge for Aman. He blocked them. He had fought before, in the training yard with hsi instructors, other noble children and with Kartik, but never for his life. 

He did not register the blood, their blood, until he saw his sword gleam red in the sunlight. 

_Murderer._

This was the second time he had killed. But the old whisper came again, the same whisper than had pervaded when he had taken Dasmesh’s head, Mandhav’s father. 

_Murderer._

He did not have long to ponder this. The next bout of attacks came and the two of them fought as if they were one body, one heart, one soul. Ducking, swerving and turning at the right time, navigating each other’s blind spots, protecting each other.

“When I count to three,” whispered Kartik furiously as he blocked a head strike from another soldier. “We separate and take them individually.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Just trust me.”

When they separated Aman felt as if he had lost a vital part of his armour. But their plan seemed to work. They were able to cut through them more effectively now that they had more freedom of movement. 

And Aman killed, killed and killed again. 

_Someone’s mother._ A voice said in his head. _Someone’s daughter, someone’s brother._

_How can you possibly hope to kill Kartik?_ Whispered another voice. _When you can’t even kill them without remorse._

“Aman!” Kartik’s voice cut through his thoughts. Thoughts that had blinded him. 

He knew not what happened next only that he was pushed roughly aside, so roughly that he lost his balance and fell on his side. 

He looked up in time to see Kartik standing before him. Kartik taking a sword strike to his chest. 

He found himself saying Kartik’s name over and over again. As if saying it would stop the other king from doubling over in pain, as if it would stop the blood rapidly spreading over the light cream sherwani he wore. Aman knew nought but one thing. _He saved my life again. May the gods damn me if I let him die now._

Aman picked himself up from the floor, rising as Kartik fell. He raised his sword ready to make a charge. His final stand. He was losing but he was damned if he went down without a fight.

It was then that he heard the sound of thundering hooves echo through the forest and he knew then that he was not alone. He knew then that he will not lose. _Safe._ He felt safe. 

Nasireh emerged from the trees, the gold in his hair gleaming as he raced through the forest sword in hand, his soldiers, as well as Chaman emerging in his wake. 

At the sight of them the seven remaining soldiers of Mandhav dropped their weapons. 

Aman took this opportunity to turn to Kartik who was leaning back against a tree, hand at his chest trying to stop the flow of blood. But there was so much of it. Theoretically Aman knew the human body contained a lot of blood, but he never understood its true extent until today.

He sheathed his sword and rushed to Kartik’s side, kneeling by him intent on seeing the wound. He feared the worst.

“You shouldn’t have run off like that,” said Kartik weakly through the pain as soon as Aman came to his side. “You-” he tried to sit up. 

“You’re bleeding out.” Aman’s hands gently urging him to lay back down, his voice belayed the panic he dared not acknowledge. 

“Then let my last words be a scolding,” insisted Kartik. “You damned fool, you ass, what possessed you to run off?” 

_Your smile, I wanted to see you smile. I wanted you to be happy._

He took the scolding, the gods knew he deserved it and much more.What he did was stupid, beyond stupid.

“There could have been an ambush at any minute” continued Kartik. “And you run off into the woods alone without a guard. You call me an idiot, you call me stupid but even I have more sense than that! “

“Are you quite finished?” asked Aman angrily, he did not know that Kartik’s words had the power to hurt him so.

The blood and Kartik’s words threaten to reduce him to sobs. 

“No I am not finished. Did you not stop to think for one minute that you could have gotten killed? I was half afraid they had already killed you and I would have to. Gods did you not have an inkling of concern for your own safety. You fucking prick. You piece of shit, you-”

He let out a sharp groan as the pain as his shouting seemed to worsen the wound.

“Lay back down,” Aman requested, the blood had spread all across the material of Kartik’s sherwani. “Please just don’t shout.”

“Not shout-”

“Please Kartik!” Aman whispered. “Please, it’s bleeding so much, shouting will make it worse. You can shout at me all you want later, just be quiet let me look at your wound now. Please”

Kartik’s silence was as monstrous as his anger, his eyes bore into Aman’s with all the rage he could muster none the less he let Aman undo the lacings of the sherwani hoping against all hope that the wound was not deep.

He peeled back the bloodied clothing. He did not know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or give in to his panic.

It was worse than his wildest hopes but infinitely better than his worst fears. The cut was not so deep, but it was not shallow. Treatable, only if they had the right equipment which at the moment they did not.

“Am I going to die?” Kartik’s voice was barely a whisper, the blood, the shouting, the rage sapping all the energy out of it.

“I don’t know,” said Aman. “I don’t know. Gods I don’t know Kartik. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He wanted to weep, he wanted to scream but that would not help Kartik.

He focused his mind on the wound and the wound alone. He needed to staunch the flow of blood.

He turned to his surroundings hoping for something that he could use. Around them Nasireh, Chaman, the Mahanite and Akhtari soldiers were taking Mandhav’s soldiers as prisoners. Placing the task in Zaib’s capable hands Nasireh rushed to Kartik’s side.

“Kartik?” Nasireh made his way towards them now. “By Noor’s light what happened?”

“Ask your precious King,” hissed Kartik.

Nasireh looked at Aman. Aman found he could not meet his eyes. 

“I need to bind his wounds then get him to Shafaq as soon as possible, it is the only place where he can be treated properly,” said Aman. “Do you have anything that is clean that I could use? Anything?”

Nasireh shook his head. It was Chaman who arrived then. He took one look at the situation and wordlessly removed the turban off his head, unwound the cloth and handed it to Aman. 

“Quickly,” he advised. 

The turban was bright red. It would hide the blood well. Aman took it from his uncle and focused his mind. He tried not to think of the worst consequences. He tried to look at the wound clinically, as if it were not a part of Kartik. But it was a part of him and its presence was Aman’s fault.

He managed to tie the turban tightly around Kartik’s chest, staunching the blood. 

“I think I’ll die from how tightly this is bound rather than blood loss.” said Kartik.

“Shut up.” advised Nasireh. “You know I hate it when you make jokes like that.”

Kartik managed a grin. 

“Can you stand?” asked Aman. “We need to get you on a horse.”

“My horse?” asked Nasireh.

His horse was a heavy set cart horse used for large carriages to accommodate his great build and height. While Aman was sure it was great enough to carry two people there was another problem.

“It’s not fast enough, I’ll take him on mine.”

“We need to send guards with you.”

“Send as many as you like, I hope they can keep up.”

Aman did not attempt to try and carry Kartik, he let Nasireh do it. The taller man gently picked up Kartik in his arms, carried him as easily as if he were a babe. 

It was then that Kaali emerged from the trees with Mandhav before him at swordpoint.

“I found him lurking in the woods.” he said. “What will you have me do?”

“He will be tried at Shafaq, imprison him.” said Aman. 

Kaali’s eyes turned to Kartik, his eyes widened in shock at the sight of him being carried by Nasireh, his bloodied sherwani hanging opening fluttering in the breeze, the blood red turban binding his wound.

“Gods be good, what happened?”

“I will tell you later Kaali, I need to get him to Shafaq.”

Kaali nodded. He pressed his sword tighter against Mandhav’s throat and gave order for the chains to brought.

Nasireh managed to get Kartik on the horse alongside Aman. 

Aman did not trust Kartik to stay upright so they ended up sitting face to face on Sapir. It was exactly as they had been before they entered Khorshid two months ago. But instead of the moment being laced with lust and longing as it had been then, the moment was laced with fear.

“Hold on to me.” he told Kartik.

Kartik snaked his arms around Aman’s waist and rested his face against the crook of Aman’s neck. He did this without a word.

For good measure Aman wrapped one arm around Kartik, bringing him in closer, more securely to chest. With his other hand firmly at the reins he urged Sapir forward into a gallop, holding on to his husband all the while.

He had no time to observe the scenery around him, it passed him by on a blur. Every moment felt like a whole excruciating year. Every moment was contaminated, stained by the knowledge that Kartik was still losing blood/

“You should be happy,” said Kartik. “I’m dying. Why aren’t you happy?”

“You are not dying.” he said. “You are not allowed to die. You saved my life.”

“You and your convoluted sense of honour I hate it sometimes.”

“Be quiet, you'll make it worse.”

Aman rode on. He had long outstripped the guards Nasireh had sent behind them.

He noticed not even the beauty of Shafaq’s ancient white peaks carved into the mountains themselves. He noticed not its magnificence. He could not admire the walls, the opulent arched gate. He only knew it was there because he had to shout at the gatekeeper to open it.

As soon as he saw a large enough opening in the gate he raced through it. The crowd that were eagerly awaiting their arrival was silent as the sight of their two kings, on the same horse, blood covering both their bodies.

This was not the entrance they had expected.

“They’re all staring,” mumbled Kartik. “I told you it was a good idea to enter the city on the same horse. We made the strangest entrance in history, but they will sing of our love. I'm glad we did it at Shafaq rather than Khorshid it’s far more poetic.” 

“Shut up”

But Kartik was right. No matter what the outcome was, they _would_ sing of this moment. They would sing of how Aman had raced through forests, mountain passes, steps and cobbles to save the man he loved. 

He just was not sure whether it was love that drove him.

* * *

Sai's poem [A glass filled with your heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176219) is based on the previous chapter. Give it a read it is gorgeous.

Anyway everyone should read [Cornerstone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880470). Just do it. Thank you.


	40. Of Life and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating early so I can focus on assignments. Thanks to Mehan for helping with Mandhav/Rakesh’s punishment.

The trouble lies in the urge

An urge divine and blind

To make human the gods

To make gods out of mankind

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Aman did not leave Kartik’s side for the three days he was bedridden, unconscious from the blood loss. He barely ate, he barely slept, he sat by Kartik’s side holding his hand, changing his bandages, feeding him honeyed water so that he did not starve. More often than not Sunaina could hear lines from prayers escape his lips whenever she went to visit the both of them at various parts of the day. 

She could also see the toll it took on her son’s body, dark circles were appearing under his reddened eyes, his expression haggard, his hair dishevelled, his usually immaculate attire unchanged and crumpled. The bruise on the side of his face, where Mandhav had struck him, was mottled with every colour she could imagine, dulled and darkened.

One the day he arrived he had been beside himself with worry. He had collected himself enough to help Qabid and the other healers with Kartik’s wound. After had become once again the impenetrable fortress of ice, the man he had been before his marriage when vengeance was first and foremost in his mind. While then it had been anger that had made him close up, now it was because his sole focus was on keeping his husband alive. 

Qabid had said Kartik would survive.  _ He has survived worse.  _ Those had been his words and Sunaina could almost believe them. When they had been tending to his wounds she had caught a glimpse of his torso. It was scarred, more scarred than Shankar’s own body had been, Shankar who had fought in battles for twenty years. All of Kartik’s scars could not have been from battle, he had only fought the one, that much Sunaina was sure. 

She found often her mind would wander to Kartik’s childhood, to Qabid’s silence when it came to the Akhtari king’s relationship with his father.

_ Could it be that the drunkard Jagesh had done that to him? Monster.  _ Had Jagesh been alive now, she would have no qualms about killing him with her own hands. 

It was another reason why she had long absolved him for his hand in Shankar’s death. He had been a child then, a child who needed to fight for his life, a child who had survived worse than she could imagine. She found as the days went by she had come to admire him, his courage and his optimism against all odds, love him, rather than hate him as she once did.

It had been a gradual discovery that had come to its full realisation when she was almost about to lose him. If this ordeal had brought about anything it was the revelation that she loved Kartik as much as she loved Aman. 

For this reason alone, though Aman was immovable, unable to be induced away from Kartik’s bedside, for today at least Sunaina was determined to tend to Kartik, to ensure that Aman would sleep if only for a few hours. 

She was just outside the door when she heard the muffled conversation from the other side of the door. Sunaina felt herself smile. Kartik must have woken up.

Sunaina went to open the door to see Kartik sitting up, propped up by numerous pillows, fresh binding at his chest with Gabru dozing with his head on his thigh. At his bedside was Aman holding a bowl of gruel, mixing it with a spoon. Qabid was also there packing his medicine bag. Neither of her sons had noticed her presence. 

What she had thought was a muffled conversation between the two was, in reality, Kartik yelling at Aman. It was a strange sight, no one in the last ten years had given Aman more than a light scolding, initially out of respect for his mourning and then out of fear for his anger. And here Kartik was, beyond livid, his upbraiding frenziedness would have put Shankar’s to shame. 

Qabid looked up, noticing Sunaina’s presence, smiled at her, genially slinging his medicine bag over his shoulder, he approached. 

“How long have they been like this?” she whispered.

“Since Kartik woke up.” Qabid glanced towards Kartik. “It had been half an hour or so. I have never seen Kartik give such a harsh rebuke to anyone.”

“Nor have I seen Aman be on the receiving end,” she replied, Kartik’s shouting now forming the backdrop of their conversation. “How is his wound?”

“It is healing,” admitted Qabid. “It will take a few days before it is safe to remove the stitches, until then he must not leave his bed unless he needs to relieve himself, neither is he allowed to feed himself for two more days, the stitches could come loose.” he paused as if considering something. “I have to tell the others, I have promised or they will have my head.”

Sunaina nodded letting Qabid through the door. She allowed herself for the first time to properly listen to what her sons were saying.

“I was a fool!” admitted Aman, clearly frustrated. “I own it, how many times must you make admit to it?”

“As many times as it takes for you to get into that thick skull of yours,” Kartik’s glare had hardened then. “You need to understand you are a king. Not just of Mahan but of Akhtar too. I have placed my people in your hands and moments like  _ that _ make me wonder if I am trusting the right person with their lives, mind you, its not just a few lives but  _ thousands.  _ Thousands of lives depend on you, Aman. By going alone in those woods you did not risk your own life but everyone in our damned kingdoms. And for what reason? A race could have waited until we reached Shafaq? Was it so important that you almost got killed for it?”

He did not bring up his own near-death experience. As if his wounds, deadly as they were, were nothing compared to Aman’s safety. 

Kartik took in a deep breath, wincing slightly as the shouting started to take a toll on his wound “We almost lost you.”

“And you as well,” mumbled Aman looking down at the bow of gruel shamefacedly. At this Kartik’s features softened a little.

“I can never give you peace can I?” Kartik asked quietly. “Alive or dead.”

Sunaina briefly wondered what he meant by it. It could not be tied to Aman’s vengeance could it?

Aman proffered a gruel laden spoon towards Kartik “You need to eat, you have had nothing to eat these past three days but the honeyed water they gave you while unconscious.”

It was then she decided that his words must have had another meaning. The level of concern Aman had for Kartik left no room for vengeance to truly take root.

Kartik turned his head the other way. 

Aman’s nostrils flared, “Now you’re just being ridiculous!”

“Good!” replied Kartik. “Now  _ you _ know exactly how I felt!”

Aman shoved the spoon back violently in the bowl of gruel “Starve for all I care!”

Sunaina decided this was the best time to interrupt. “It seems I came at an inopportune moment.”

Kartik and Aman turned towards her, mortified by her presence.

“Ma?” questioned Aman.

“Guddu,” she acknowledged coming to sit at Kartik’s other side. “I came to see how my Bubla was doing? I see he is already  _ well _ awake.”

At the pet name, Kartik grinned. He had a certain way in which he smiled that seemed to light up his whole face, the shadows of his anger had passed in that instant. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked, taking one of his hands between both of hers, warm and full of life. 

“It hurts like hell,” admitted Kartik. “I’m barely allowed to move, even if I was, I don’t think I’d want to. But I will survive, that's what Qabid said. Besides I’m sure Aman had a fine time learning about how to treat such wounds.”

“No I did not.” came Aman’s response. “You need to eat.”

Kartik frowned again. “I seem to recall you telling me to starve.”

Knowing them, knowing that this would escalate into another one of their squabbles Sunaina reached out and took the bowl from Aman.

“How long had it been since you changed your clothes or brushed your hair?” she asked Aman. “You should go bathe, I will look after him.”

Aman nodded and took a change of clothes that the servants had laid out for him three days before. He had only changed once in the past three days and that was out of his bloodied garments into cleaner ones so that he could tend to Kartik’s wounds with Qabid. 

He ducked into one of the antechambers. There were three in this room, Sunaina knew. The first being a privy. The second was a separate chamber for bathing. It was not as elaborate as Khorshid’s baths with their built-in aqueducts, water still needed to be brought in and heated. The third antechamber was a shrine dedicated to the god Noor. 

It was said the Erhan, the first and last occupant of this room, had the shrine built for he believed them to stave off nightmares. 

“Now what have you been arguing about?” asked Sunaina

Kartik turned his gaze towards her; he seemed surprised, shocked when she put the gruel laden spoon in front of him. He looked as if he were seeing the dead. Sunaina did not have to wonder exactly who he was thinking about as of this moment.

She could never fill the hole in his heart that Lekisha had left behind but she would do all she can to let him know he was loved. He was her son. Her Bubla.

He allowed her to feed him

“Idiocy which almost got him killed,” Kartik muttered through a mouthful of food. “I thought he had more sense than that.”

“And I thought you had more sense than to talk with your mouth full.”

Kartik closed his mouth promptly. He chewed and swallowed before speaking again.

“I just,” Kartik took in a deep breath. “I thought he was dead Ma. I thought I would never see him again. I don’t how I would have even been able to look you in the eye if he had been dead.”

It was strange to think that only four months ago she had been sure there was no real love between them. 

“The fault is partially mine,” said Sunaina in a low whisper. 

“Do not say so. You were not there.”

“No, but I should have reined in his wilder side,” Sunaina shoved another spoonful in Kartik’s mouth so he would not be able to interrupt her. The thought had been festering in her for a long time. “True he is disciplined, well mannered and much like you he had grown up too fast under the burden of kingship. But there were many things I let go unchecked. I was too afraid to give him the guidance he needed.”

Kartik seemed to consider her words chewing thoughtfully at his gruel. “You should not put the blame too much on yourself, Mother I am sure you did all you could. He is still king.” Kartik smiled. “Someone anyone should be proud to love.”

“Nonetheless,” Sunaina placed the spoon again in the bowl, mixing a little more thoroughly before filling it again. “I think he learned his lesson. He never left your bedside since the day he arrived in Shafaq. He has not eaten or slept either. The gods know, he was in tears when he rode into the palace”

She could still remember it. Kartik’s cream sherwani dappled with blood, Aman clutching his semi-conscious body close to him, afraid to let go, calling for Qabid. He would not let go of Kartik, not even to let the others look at him. It was as if he thought that letting go of Kartik for even a second was like abandoning him to the doors of death. It was only when Qabid arrived that he finally let go. 

“Perhaps I was a little too harsh,” admitted Kartik.

Sunaina shrugged before feeding him another spoonful. “The others have been worried sick too.”

“I hope they are not too worried, it was not that bad of a wound so I have been told. I just lost more blood than I was supposed to.”

“Kusum had been in tears, Devika had not left her room, Nasireh and Parvaaz stay with her. Rajini has been asking after him day and night. Chaman and Champa, would come visit you at least three times a day. Keshav was always here to make sure they prepared the honeyed water on time.”

A strange sad expression came over his face. “You all care too much.”

“I speak for myself when I say this but you are my son, of course, I care for you.” seeing the tears well in his eyes. “Do not weep. I am sure Aman’s skills at cooking are not that bad.”

In an instant, Kartik’s expression turned cheerful. He could not help but laugh, the tears that had been welling in his eyes falling down in laughter rather than sadness, gruel spilling over a little on to his beard.

After merely a few seconds his laughter turned into groans, it was troubling his wound. Sunaina put the bowl aside and gently helped him lie back down on the propped pillows. Laughter it seemed was not always the best medicine. She took up her dupatta and wiped the gruel clean from his beard. He looked at her again, his eyes filled with a certain adoration that reminded her of the time she had given him the consort bangle. His smile was soft, sweet, boyish and dimpled. She could not help but smile back as she took her dupatta away.

It was at that moment that the door burst open to reveal Devika, followed closely by Kusum, Rajini, Nasireh, Keshav and Parvaaz. Chaman and Champa came in soon after.

Devika, unsurprisingly, was the first to rush forward and embrace Kartik. At the force of her embrace, Kartik let out a sharp cry.

“Devi,” he managed out. “Stitches.”

She pulled away slightly from Kartik. It seemed as if she was trying to say something but she burst into tears instead, at this Kartik promptly pulled her back into his arms, wincing as he did so. He let her sob into his chest. Sunaina could not recall a time when she had seen Devika cry, seeing her now made her understand just how much Kartik meant to her. Just how much he meant to all of them. 

“Don’t do that again,” Devika whispered. “Please.”

Kartik hugged her tighter despite his evident pain, the tears had started to well again in his eyes. It was then that Kusum came forward and wrapped her arms around both of them. One by one, silently the others joined in on the embrace. 

Chaman and Champa made their way to where Sunaina sat and stood beside her, smiling affectionately as the six enfolded Kartik between them.

Gabru who had up until then been dozing peacefully at Kartik’s thigh yelped at the presence of so many people in such close proximity. He went to Sunaina, resting his head on her lap instead. He only stayed there for a few minutes before he perked up rushing away from Sunaina towards something else that had excited his interest.

Sunaina turned to see that Aman had now returned from bathing, changing his clothes and brushing his hair. He stopped short at the sight of everyone crowded around Kartik, embracing him. 

Chaman was the first after Sunaina to notice his presence. After he was Devika.

“Join us,” she insisted, making space for him beside Kartik. 

As her words the others too turned, as a result, they all pulled away from each other to reveal Kartik, his face tearstained, as he had been weeping. No, he was weeping, those weeping eyes met Aman’s.

Aman did not hold Kartik’s gaze for long. He did not even answer Devika, he stared down at his shoes, his guilt tangible. But there seemed to be something more to it, Sunaina could not quite pinpoint it. He did not dare to meet anyone else’s eye either.

“I’m sorry,” said Kartik, his voice raw. “I’m sorry that I shouted at you so much. It was unwarranted. You did save my life in the end.”

“I would not have had to,” said Aman quietly. “If you did not have to save my life.” 

“It’s in the past,’ said Kartik quickly. “As long as you do not do something like that again.” 

Then as if remembering something Kartik fumbled through the pockets of his trousers. He brought out something glittering silver and blue. Sunaina recognised it to be the earring that Kartik had gifted him, the earring Aman had worn to their wedding.

“It was clever of you I’ll admit,” said Kartik. “Try not to lose it again, it cost me a fortune and many days of the thought.”

Aman came forward and took the earring from Kartik’s hand. He smiled “I’ll try my best.”

Kartik patted the spot beside him. “Come sit, Mother tells me you have not slept.”

Cautiously Aman sat down beside him. He rested his head against Kartik’s shoulder. The tiredness that had threatened to bring him to collapse for the past three, falling on him.

“When I am better, we’ll have a race, a proper race,” Kartik promised. “And I’m going to beat you this time.”

Aman gave him a lazy smile, but he did not speak. In a matter of seconds, he had fallen asleep with his head on Kartik’s shoulder. 

He had after all not slept properly in three days. 

~~~

A week passed before Kartik was able to walk without risk of reopening the stitches at his chest. Devika had spent the first three days of his injury reliving the almost fatal opium incident. She had spent three days in her room unable to move. Nasireh and Parvaaz had been with her. The memory of three years ago hung like a shadow over them all.

The situation had been all too familiar for them. Kartik at death’s door. Kartik dying. 

She could still remember the way he had seemed bereft of all breath, his pupils barely visible. She remembered too the way he had begged for either the opium or death. She remembered his tears, his cursing, she remembered every word, she would have welcomed that even that, as malicious and as hurtful as they had been to the silence.

In the end, however, he was alive and well. She found herself thanking the gods whenever she heard his laughter, saw his grin, or rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness that coloured his every action.

She was glad he was alive. Glad he had not been killed. She was not sure what she would do, all she knew was that a part of her would have resented Aman for it. She had come to love him in her own way, but Kartik’s death was not something she would ever forgive anyone for, not even Aman.

But she did not have to worry about that for long. Her mind was soon preoccupied by Mandhav’s trial.

It took the course of a week. Witnesses and spies were brought forth to give their testimonies. All pointed to one thing. Mandhav had been behind the attacks in Kashatr and he had been intent on capturing the kings for his own personal gain before killing them off. 

Mandhav pleaded guilty to every charge. Bodily harm to a royal person, mass murder, rape, plotting against the crown, and high treason. 

“This warrants a death sentence,” said Aman after he had finished reading out Mandhav’s crimes. “The gods know, you deserve it for all the lives you took in Kashatr.”

Mandhav did not even bow his head in shame. Devika hated him all the more for it. His eyes searched instead for the throne room hungrily. Devika knew what he was looking for, or rather whom.

Kusum. She would kill him for that alone. But that was not to be. Not today.

“They all deserved life,” said Kartik. “And it was taken away from them. You deserve death and yet here you are still alive. You did not have the right to take someone’s life, but we will not stoop so low. We will not deal with death as brazenly as you did. You will not be given the death sentence.”

The room had gone quiet. No one had expected this. No one but those in the inner circle. They had discussed this, argued this over many times. Kartik’s judgement had won out. Devika knew he had always wanted to abolish the death sentence, and this trial would set that precedent firmly.

“There has been too much bloodshed already,” concluded Kartik. “We will not sully our hands again.”

“You will be sent to Kashatr” said Aman. “To the place you desecrated. You will be brought there in chains, under heavy guard, and you will rebuild the village stone by stone. I do not care if it takes you a thousand years, you will do it alone and the villagers will watch. They will not lift a finger to your aid.”

Mandhav nodded. 

“Rajini will lead the party,” said Kartik. “She will be sent with twenty soldiers to escort you and make sure you are safely interred there.”

Neither of the kings asked if he had any last requests, as was courtesy when it came to harsh punishments. He did not deserve even that.

~~~

Kartik made his way to the dungeons deep in the mountains of Shafaq. He was going to see the man who had killed his people, the man who would have brought both kingdoms to ruin had he and Aman not agreed to marry. 

He was proud of both himself and Aman but there was a part of him that could deny the fact that he wished this did not happen so soon. He knew for certain he was to die in less than two months, now that Mandhav was tried and punished for his crime. A part of him wished that this problem had remained unsolved, so that he could have had more time with the others, with his friends, his family. More time with Aman.

He remembered the way they had engulfed in his embrace. He had cried bitter tears then, not for himself. But for Aman. They would never forgive him if they knew the truth, and he had to remedy that, convince Aman to lie about it before he was killed.

But that was an issue for later. For now, he wanted to look at the murderer that was Mandhav in the face, one more time. He did not know why but it felt tight.

“I wish to see the prisoner,” he told the guard. “No one is to disturb us.”

The guard nodded, though their look was confused and let him through. 

Mandhav sat on the straw-strewn floor of the dungeons toying with his chains. He acted as if they were made of air rather than iron. When he saw Kartik enter he grinned.

“Have you come to gloat?” he asked.

Kartik did not answer him. He sat down on the soiled straw and studied him. 

“Aman told me you saved his life when he was younger.”

“If you want more childhood stories about your husband I am afraid you have come to the wrong person.”

“I only want to know why you did it,” said Kartik. “They say you used to be kind. Was revenge for your father so important that you would kill hundreds?”

Mandhav eyes met his “They say your husband was the same, he would have gone to war if it meant that he got to kill you.”

“But he did not,” said Kartik. “We are happily married as you can see. The King of Mahan is an honourable man”

“I often wonder if it is really all that happy.”

“If you do not believe me you can ask anyone else,” said Kartik calmly. “I love him” that much was true on his part. “And he loves me.”

_ As a friend at least. _

He and Aman had gone to great lengths to ensure that it seemed they were nothing but besotted with each other. It had mostly been unintentional, the rumours of their first meeting and their wedding night, the incident with the Eskabadi beer had all added fuel to the fire. 

But servants still talked about how many times the kings would send away their guards, they would talk about soiled sheets and the amount of oil used in one night. They had been nothing meticulous in crafting the supposed details of their private lives, Mandhav had no reason to suspect otherwise. Nonetheless, it scared Kartik that he was able to even suspect the rift.

“Forgive me,” said Mandhav. “I should not doubt it. You almost gave your life for him.”

“As you once had. But that day you were the one intent on killing him,” said Kartik. “Then you had run away. I had thought you a fool but not a coward.”

“I am paying for it not with my life I understand but something equally as terrible.” Mandhav’s eyes seemed to pierce into his. “Is that not enough for you?”

“The council was intent on giving you a death sentence,” said Kartik. “It was I who convinced them otherwise.”

“You would have me believe you to be honourable?”

“More than you certainly.” 

“You think of me without honour,” said Mandhav. “You with your pampered life, servants tending to your every whim. You do not know what I have gone through. I did not have the privilege of being honourable.”

There was a hard edge to his words, an edge that could be nothing but the truth. Kartik had never thought of it that way. For honour to be a privilege. Was it true then that the lives of those that were deposed gave no room for the honour to take root?

_ I am king, surely, surely I can remedy that. _

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Kartik, unsure of what else to say. 

“I do not need your pity,” said Mandhav. 

Who was he, king that he was, to lord over a man who had once been noble, a man who had faced more than he had? Life had not always been roses for Kartik, his body bore the marks of his struggle, but he did own the fact that despite the hardships he had faced, he had everything laid out for him. He was, in Mandhav’s words, privileged.

For once Kartik found himself feeling genuine emotions for him. 

“Is there anything you do need?” he asked

Mandhav looked up at him and said, “I want to see Kusum.”

Kartik knew Kusum did not want to see him. He had seen how she looked at Rajini. Ever since the night, the Bahaduri ended he had noted a closeness, an intimacy, a trust that he wished he shared with Aman. It was a beautiful thing to trust the person you love, and love the person you trust. What Rajini and Kusum had was nothing short of divine, they had made their own heaven between them. Kartik would protect their heaven for as long as he could. Whatever it took. That much he could for them at least.

“You will see her when you leave,” he said, a polite refusal. “Along with everyone else.”

Mandhav clenched his teeth “They say you call her sister.”

Kartik rolled up his sleeve slightly to reveal the bangle Sunaina had given him, a constant adornment much like the Saapki bone necklace of Eskabad and his nose ring. “We share the same mother.”

“She is not as sweet and innocent as you would think of her,” said Mandhav. “I’ve had her many times certainly.”

“We are not those countries across the Western sea,” said Kartik. “Who place the status of purity on loins untouched. The Gods have decreed that the body remains pure, sacred as long as the heart is good.”

“A man of the gods are you?” Mandhav laughed. “You would not be so quick to defend her if you knew what she had done.”

“I do not care for your words, or what she may have done. I know her certainly better than you.”

Kartik did not want to discuss what Kusum may or may not have done. Who she may or may not have been with. As far as he was concerned she was his sister, his beautiful brave wonderful sister who deserved nothing but the best. He was angry, angry that Mandhav felt the need to insult her like this to Kartik’s face.

“You would not say so if I told you-”

Kartik could not help it. He did not want to hear any more from this man and his malicious words. Kartik’s had jumped forwards and wrapped his hands around Mandhav’s throat. 

He felt the veins of the other man beneath his fingers pulse, felt the power of life and death in his hands. There was a dark urge, a violent urge to go through with it. To kill him. 

Kartik Singh was many things, but he was not a hypocrite. 

“If I was not a man of my word,” he whispered in Mandhav’s ear. “If it weren’t for the laws of this land, if your sentence was not already passed, I would kill you here and now.” 

He let go of Mandhav, who was left wheezing for breath wheezing for breath. His neck would be bruised by morning.

“You build yourself up,” said Mandhav clutching his throat, his voice hoarse. “To be some great noble king who would not dare to sully his hands with blood, guilty or innocent. But when it comes to something personal at your core, you are just like me. A murderer.”

* * *

[Peace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpxX4ZE4KWE&list=OLAK5uy_nWgO-2lNMsx90439Yx0xTWCGIktUc74e8&index=15) by Taylor Swift for Kartik and Aman's relationship thus far.


	41. The Lake of Poets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ao3 user Ellazaria and Hrtika for your amazing art. I will be linking them down the bottom. Give them a like and comment <3.
> 
> It was a little rushed. Some things I'm not happy about. But I needed to get it out of the way for the weekend. I hope you enjoy it.

There is blood in these very waters

Here all the poets came to die

One by one, accursed, they fell 

Holding the secrets of the world nigh

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

“Mother wants us to sit for a portrait,” said Aman. 

He had just come back from collecting the morning petitions from the council room. He carried a stack of them under his arm. He did not seem particularly pleased by the notion of answering petitions. But in his defence, they were very boring.

Kartik had been working on his epic in Aman’s absence. Now that he had started, he did not want to put it away.

“Today?” asked Kartik, putting away his epic back into its box. “Has she already found a painter? How should we pose for it?”

“On thrones I suppose.” Aman sighed and looked down at the petitions in his hands. “Today is going to be a long day.”

“Petitions in the morning,” said Kartik, taking them from Aman and flicking through them. “Sending off Mandhav to his doom at noon. Court after lunch. More petitions in the evening. Sometimes I think if people truly knew what kings do they would never vie for the throne.”

Aman let out a snort of laughter. It was not one of his polite laughs that he often used when talking to other nobles. But something genuine. Whenever Kartik achieved this sort of response from Aman to one of his jokes he felt a certain sort of victory. A victory that may not go down in the annals of history but a victory that he was more proud of than any other.

“I don’t want to do this,” said Aman simply.

Kartik considered their plan for the day. It was not very enticing. He was sitting in Shafaq.He was sitting in the very palace built by the brother kings, Erhan and Dilaram. The once capital of the two nations. The very walls of the palace had seen more bloodshed, betrayal and intrigue that Chandan and Khorshid combined. And here he was bored out of his mind.

“We should ride out,” said Kartik. “Explore Shafaq.” he paused and smiled cautiously knowing the topic of their rather dramatic entrance in Shafaq was a sensitive one for Aman. “I don’t think I ever got a clear view of the city from outside its walls.”

Aman seemed to consider his offer. Looking from the petitions back up at Kartik. It was clear which option he preferred. 

“We’ll have to get through most of these first,” said Aman firmly. “We’ll regret not doing so tomorrow.”

Kartik smiled. “A quarter of them.”

“Three quarters.”

“Half?”

Aman considered for a moment before confirming “Half.”

Kartik took the first one from the pile as Aman sat opposite him on the study. It was from Lord Majnun from Akhtar. He requested a loan from the treasury in order to have an adequate dowry for the marriage of his son. It was a reasonable request, now that coffers and treasuries of the combined nations were brimming with gold and priceless jewels. It was not a complicated request either yet Kartik could already feel his mind-numbing. He drew a sheaf of paper and wrote his congratulations for the wedding, expressing his grief that he and his husband would not be able to attend but hoped that the dowry he sent would be sufficient to make up for their absence.

He signed the bottom of it, rolled it, affixed it with a royal seal, before putting it aside and taking up the next request. At this moment he looked up to see that Aman too had finished answering one of the requests. 

As soon as he had put aside Aman got up.

“I am going to get us something to eat,” he announced, walking towards the door.

“I know what you are trying to do,” accused Kartik pointing his quill at his husband. “Leaving me to deal with all these petitions.”

Aman rolled his eyes and made his way for the door “Nuts or fruit?

“Fruit!” Kartik called out.

As soon as Aman left Kartik knew he would not be able to focus on the requests without him. He reopened his box and took out his poem. He found he could no longer work in chronological order as he used to. He did not have the time or patience to burrow through particularly trying scenes or lines. He wrote whichever scenes inspired him at the moment. He seemed to work faster that way. And he needed to write as fast he could.

He did not want to leave this world with his epic incomplete.

After a while, the door creaked open.

“I hope you have not gotten the dates,” said Kartik assuming it was Aman. “I know they are technically fruits but they give me nosebleeds in the summer months and they are fast approaching.”

“I don’t know about dates but I do bring the draft of Mandhav's trial for you to sign.” The voice was Kaali’s.

Kartik looked up to see the other man standing by the doorway with a bundle of papers in his hands. He seemed amused by Kartik’s words.

“Forgive me,” said Kartik standing up. “I thought you were Aman.”

Kaali laughed motioning for him to sit back down “I am sorry to disappoint you. Where is Aman?”

“He has gone to the kitchens to get food. I can call a servant to call him back.“

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Kaali interrupted. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”

Kartik could not recall ever spending a moment alone with Kaali. Though the other man was nothing but polite to him, Kartik he could not help but feel that there was a distance between them that could not be breached. Kaali has opposed the marriage he had been close with Shankar. I’m short the odds were against Kartik, they always were. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Kaali hated him more than Aman ever did.

“Of course,” said Kartik motioning for him to sit on the seat that Aman had once occupied. Kaali placed the papers in front of Kartik who started reading through it. 

“I am afraid I have been rather cold towards you. Unwelcoming.”

Kartik looked up at Kaali meeting his eye. Whatever Kaali had come to talk about Kartik had not expected this. On one hand, however, he was glad of it. 

“On the contrary I think you have been rather polite treating me with more civility than I deserved considering the circumstances.” he cast another cursory glance at the pages. 

Though he had been taught since an early age to always read through drafts of court proceedings properly. He did not really feel the need to do so however today. If he could trust Kaali in one thing it was in formulating such drafts meticulously.

“You put it all too kindly,” insisted Kaalu. “That is simply all it was. Civility. I confess it was wrong of me to be so cold when you were willing to do so much for the nations.” 

“It is understandable, your coldness,” said Kartik. “You were close to Shankar, were you not? It would be hard to befriend an enemy in the best of circumstances. Harder still when that enemy has dealt you a personal loss. Your mistrust in me and this marriage was only natural.”

“I cared for Shankar as if he were my brother,” said Kaali. “In many ways he was, yet I care for Aman more. I love him as a son. I see that he is happy with you and that is all that matters to me.” Kaali smiled. “When we almost lost you...he was distraught. He loves you, you have made him the happiest I have seen him in ten years, for that I thank you.”

Kartik felt his heart warm at Kaali’s words. Not necessarily for Kaali thanking him, more so at the nature of his love for Aman was able to transcend enmity. _What will he do_ wondered Kartik _If he knew what Aman planned? Will he accept it or never forgive him for it?_

“I was the one who caused the family so much anguish.” Kartik flicked through the final few pages of the draft barely giving them a glance. “I am only grateful that the gods gave me the opportunity to make amends for the wrong I did.”

Kaali’s look then was a strange mixture of curiosity and confusion. Kartik did not blame him, despite Kaali’s noble words, it was a difficult thing to get used to someone who you once hated.

“Do I sign here?” asked Kartik pointing at the space at the end of the draft.

“Yes make sure you leave enough room for Aman’s own signature.”

Kartik took up his quill and signed his name. _Kartik Singh._ His signature took half of the space, he left the other half free for Aman, though in truth Aman’s signature did not need much space. He writing was as small, perfect and meticulous as he was.

He handed the draft back to Kaali.

“I hope,” said Kaali. “That from this day forth I can call you my son alongside Aman.”

Kartik smiled “I would be more than honoured.”

  
  


~~~

When Kusum had heard that Rajini was to leave for Kashatr to escort Mandhav to his doom, she felt she had to do everything in her power to stop Rajini from leaving. The night before the departure, in the low lamplight of Rajini’s room, Kusum had felt her lover’s grin against her collarbone.

“What is it?” Kusum had asked.

“You made love to me as if it were my last night on this earth.”

It was a phrase that seemed to amuse Rajini but the words had curdled something inside Kusum. She had feared exactly that. Rakesh had been too calm for her liking. He had even requested to see her again, no doubt to discuss the next part of her plan. She of course had refused. She would not pay heed to his depraved plans again.

It was not only because she loved Rajini. No. She had found a family in the Tripathi’s. A mother in Sunaina and Champa, a father in Chaman, brothers in Keshav, Aman and Kartik. Even outside the Tripathi’s she had come to love Devika, Parvaaz and Nasireh as well as Qabid and Kaali. 

The bruise on Aman’s face by Rakesh’s hand, the wound at Kartik’s chest only served to deepen her resolve against him.

That was why she stood tall and proud beside her family as Rakesh was brought forth in chains. That was why she met his searching gaze with her chin aloft. _Let him know that I have betrayed him. Let him know that I have made my choice._

She saw the confusion in her eyes, and then the anger. But he did not say anything. It was then that she knew that her presence was not important to him. It was then that she knew that he had indeed been embroiled in something bigger. That this was only the beginning of the storm to come. 

It was then that she knew that she made the right choice in choosing the Tripathi’s over Rakesh.

Rajini was saying her goodbyes to her family. First, she went to her mother and father. Champa had embraced her warmly, but it was clear to anyone watching closely there were tears in her eyes. Kusum wondered if she was recalling Rajini’s earlier years when she would have to send her daughter off to war.

Chaman had too embraced her. He had grinned as he saw the rose hilt dagger he had given her as a child.

“It amazes me that you still keep it,” he had said.

“It was one of my first memories of you Baba,” Rajini had said. “It will never leave my side for as long as I live.”

She embraced her brother next and turned to Nasireh “As the commanding officer in my absence your first duty is to make sure he sleeps on time. He spends far too much time reading.”

“I am not a child to be monitored,” Keshav had told her tartly but he did not truly object.

She bid her farewells to her cousin and his husband, to her aunt, to her fellow friends and advisors. 

Finally, Rajini stood before Kusum. For a moment neither of them knew what to say.

“Will you miss me?” Rajini asked.

_Every day and every night._ Kusum thought. _Not just your touch or your kisses but your smile, your laughter, your stupid stubbornness._ All she said however was.

“No, never.”

Rajini grinned. She held Kusum’s hands in hers and kissed them both. 

“Good,” she said. “I think I will miss you enough for both of us.”

The emotions that had been roiling within Kusum for days were finally let out. They came out as tears. They came out as kiss. She did not care if Rakesh was watching. She kissed Rajini as if it were the last time she would see her. She kissed goodbye and good morrow. She kissed her with the sweetness of lark and with all the sadness of its song. She did not want the moment to end.

But everything ends. Good or bad. Rajini pulled away from her.

“Be careful, please,” said Kusum, feeling the absence of her lover’s lips keenly. “He is still dangerous. He is far too calm for my liking. I-”

Rajini rested her hands on Kusum’s shoulder. “You worry too much. He is in chains. Twenty of our soldiers will be guarding his day and night.” Rajini met her eyes. “He can do nothing to me. I will return to you. I promise.”

That did little to relieve Kusum’s anxiety. She rued her decision not to meet with Rakesh one last time if only to find out what he was planning. 

But all was said and done, she could not turn back time. 

~~~

After they had sent Rajini off to Kashatr court was to be held. Keshav stood at his designated place as vizier at the dais beside the throne. It was the first time court would be properly held in Shafaq, excluding Mandhav’s trial. Keshav knew without a doubt this would go down in the annals of history. He wandered, a little vainly, what his role would be in the story of their lives.

He was not sure, but he knew what he _wanted_ it to be. He wanted to be the man who found the lost books of Shafaq, the books that the Learned Faheema had died protecting. The books that no one had been able to find. The books that had become a myth, legend.

Keshav had been in Shafaq for weeks, he had arrived a fortnight before Kartik and Aman had and every moment had been in pursuit of these hidden treasures. They had searched all the libraries. 

They turned up as empty as the coffers of King Abduk. 

Most people now believed the books to a false hope long discarded. But Keshav could not do that. He had dreamed of this moment his whole life. Surely, surely the gods would not bring him so close to his dream if only to rip it to shreds at the very last moment.

As they waited for the court to assemble Keshav listened to snippets of Kartik and Aman’s conversation. He had not realised this earlier, but Parvaaz had pointed it out to him only a few days ago. They no longer spoke purely Mahanite or Akhtari but a mixture of both tongues. It was not quite Balkari but it proved to be a microcosm of what may have happened in Balkar. It also proved that Parvaaz’s reasoning and Kartik and Aman’s announcement today would be worthwhile for the generations to come. It would authorise and solidify what would only be inevitable when it came to language. 

“I don’t know how you can stand at court without falling asleep,” came a voice.

Keshav turned to see Nasireh had come up to stand beside him. They looked resplendent today in burnished gold and silver amour with the new lavender livery of the combined nation. Their hair, weaved with its characteristic gold, was today twined in a single loose braid that hung over their shoulder. It served to soften their sharp features.

Keshav could not deny there was something striking about their look. He found himself smiling.

“I think it is rather bold of you to assume that I have not already fallen asleep.”

Nasireh laughed at that. Their eyes fell on Parvaaz was was walking up the dais with a great smile on his face “Well, at least Parvaaz is excited.”

“As he should be,” replied Keshav. “All this about the language was his idea.”

Parvaaz by now had come and stood on Keshav’s other side “What are you two whispering about.”

“You.” offered Nasireh. 

Parvaaz rolled his eyes, he said no more for it was then that Aman had called the court to attention. 

“We have gathered the court for the first time in Shafaq, to announce a new decree to be made,” he said, turning to Kartik as if asking for permission to go on. Kartik gave a slight gesture of encouragement. “From this day forth we have decreed that the national language for the Combined Nations will be Balkari.”

There were low murmurs, mostly those of disbelief. Keshav knew why. Balkari was seen as the impure tongue, no great works of literature were written in it. It was not the tongue taught to nobles but to commoners, commoners who could not be called Mahanite or Akhtari. In some elite circles, it was even referred to as _the lower tongue._ Keshav turned towards Parvaaz expecting the other man to be disheartened by the reaction. Instead, Parvaaz wore a proud expression on his face. It was as if he knew that despite the mixed reaction of those in the present one day the future generations will be grateful for this.

“You cannot,” piped up one of the courtiers, an Akhtari noble who was to be interred here in Shafaq as part of the court. “We have been speaking our languages for years. You cannot expect us to throw it all away for a base tongue?”

“I know” continued Parvaaz. “That one’s mother tongue cannot be easily forgotten and replaced and we also know that there are many of you will be against it. But the marriage was intended to combine both the nations to become something stronger, to defeat our enemies. We cannot be strong if we are divided by tongue.”

“When was the last time the nations were combined?” asked Aman. “Under Erhan and Dilaram was it not? How many innocents perished under their armies for that to happen?” he turned to Kartik. “We marry to prevent bloodshed and for that sacrifices of other sorts must be made.”

The courtier frowned “It is not done.”

“I agree,” said Kartik. “It is not done. And maybe you do not understand it, maybe you never will. We grew up with tales of conquering and bloodshed. Up until today, it was the only way one could build an empire. I think the problem lays in the fact that history has no example of what we did.” he gestured towards himself and Aman. “It does not occur to you that is glory in peace and unity, because the songs only sing of war. You do not understand it. Whatever you do not understand you try to stifle.” Kartik smiled. “But that’s alright if _you_ do not understand it. This is our fight and if need be we will fight it ourselves.”

The courtier considered it. He seemed to understand the reasoning behind it but the concept was still one that he clearly did not like. Kartik continued.

“Parvaaz will be in charge of the institutionalisation of Balkari as a language. That will be done through books, translations, inviting Balkari scholars and working with them, putting the language through in schools throughout the nations.”

Parvaaz bowed in acceptance of his duty. At that moment the door opened to reveal a guard. She came before the king and bowed. 

“A priest from the Okhine temple has just arrived and requests an audience with the kings.”

Keshav recalled Ravi the high priest at the Okhine temple, the man who along with Kyra had officiated the wedding. 

“Send him in,” said Aman.

Ravi arrived wearing the light black robes of the priest of Okhine. Keshav turned to see there was a broad grin on Devika's face at Ravi’s arrival. He did not bow before the kings, he did not need to.

“The last time we met was the wedding was it not?” he asked. “I met your cousin as I was heading into the city, we are glad that justice has been brought for the deaths in Kashatr.”

“I hope you have not come to end our dynasty as your predecessors did to Ghazi,” said Aman dryly. 

Ghazi had been the cousin of Erhan and Dilaram. He had taken the throne after their death. But the priests of Okhine had poisoned him at his coronation for their prophecies had foretold him to be a terrible ruler.

Ravi laughed at the notion “The opposite quite frankly. It is a matter of prolonging the dynasty for generations to come.” he paused. “I have come to discuss the matter of an heir.”

Aman and Kartik seemed to have stilled in their seats.

“I confess,” said Kartik. “We have not thought of that matter. I fear we are ill-equipped to make such a decision as of now.”

“Stay with us for a few days,” said Devika. “We can discuss the matter later,” she turned to Kartik and Aman. “That is if my kings would think it wise.”

Kartik gave her an indulgent smile “At the behest of my advisors I am afraid I must ask you to prolong your stay in Shafaq. A room will be readied for you.”

Ravi bowed his head in acknowledgment “I hope our discussions to be fruitful.”

“Have there been any updates on the situations with the hidden books?” asked Kartik to Keshav. 

Keshav bowed and stepped forward “Not yet. We have searched the library there have been no traces of them. I was hoping to expand the search to the rest of the palace. But I do not have enough people at my disposal.”

At this Nasireh stepped forward “If my kings permit I would like to take up this search as well.”

Devika gave Nasireh an amused smile. Keshav knew, Nasireh had told him on the first day, that they had no patience for reading. Keshav found however that they did, however, have a voracious thirst for knowledge. The issue of reading they recently found was remedied by someone reading to them. Nasireh would spend hours on end at the library in their free time listening to either Parvaaz or Keshav read. 

It was mostly Keshav, Parvaaz claimed he did not have the time.

“Books are not usually the domain for soldiers,” said Aman. 

“It may not be my domain,” said Nasireh firmly. “But I that to not at least attempt a search would be willful ignorance akin to blinding oneself. But the finding of these books would benefit many generations to come. It will prevent wars and bloodsheds and shed light in the darkness that has come over us.”

Kartik smiled “We will make a scholar out of you yet Nasireh. Very well you may aid with the search”

~~~

It was afternoon and true to their agreement, Kartik and Aman rode out into the city. It was the first time Aman had been on a horse since Kartik’s injury. Noticing his discomfort Kartik had laughed. 

“It is not like we will be attacked again.”

None the less Aman took the precaution of having a retinue of guards to tail them. The chances of an ambush were low but Aman had learned his lesson. They two them rode out of the palace gate to the rest of the city. Shafaqq it was said was built into the curves fo the mountain, thus the city that surrounded palace was a delightful motely of houses, shops and buildings at different heights, spiral watch towers dotted throughout.

The city was a vast one, sprawling the whole mountain, encircled by five tiers of walls.

Despite its vastness, the occupancy as of now was sparse. Ever since the deaths of Erhan and Dilaram in battle and the subsequent death of their heir and cousin Ghazi, the city had been long abandoned by the nobility, only to be occupied by scholars of both nations. Of course after The Great Burnings and the Siege of Scholars the city had fallen to ruin becoming a home for bandits and lowlife.

Until now.

Now it was occupied by artists, dreamers, newcomers. It was a city build on bloodshed once, it would be a city rebuilt in love, peace, dreams and hopes. 

As Aman rode beside Kartik, as they stopped to greet the artists who had rebuilt Shafaq he noted a sort of love that burned in them all. A love for kingship he had not seen for his father, or even for himself in the first ten years of his reign. A love that had not been there before the wedding.

He knew Kartik would say otherwise but Aman knew that it was all because of Kartik. Kartik had done this. Kartik had inspired this. 

Aman had been thinking about it alot in the days since Kartik’s injury. He had seen how everyone had been distraught, destroyed, shattered by Kartik’s loss. Inconsolable, in their silence, in their grief, in their rage and their love. 

His mother and Qabid would lose a son. Chaman and Champa a nephew. Kusum, Keshav, Rajini, Devika, Parvaaz and Nasireh a brother. Even he himself could not escape the ravaging flood that was the reality of Kartik’s loss. He would lose a friend. Someone had perhaps come to love in his own way. 

But most importantly the nations would lose their king. Their beloved king. The better king. The king who made this all possible. 

Losing Kartik, killing him with his own hands, would kill a part of Aman too. He knew that much. Yet, what could he do? The ghost of Shankar loomed over him, his oath was not one easily thrown away. Loving Kartik would be throwing his father’s memory in the dust, invalidating his loss and the destruction that it had brought in his soul, his mind, his childhood and his family. A stain on his honour.

Kartik was right. He would never be at peace, no matter if Kartik died or not.

_Do not kill him then_ a voice would whisper _You do not have to have blood on your hands._

The thought was treacherous. Months ago Aman would not even have entertained it.

_Weak, stupid lovesick fool._

“Aman?” Kartik’s voice broke him out of his reverie.

They were now waiting for the lowest gate to open. They never got a glimpse of Shafaq outside the walls. Kartik had suggested that they might as well relive it now. 

“Yes?” he answered looking at Kartik.

Kartik looked him with concerned. “Is everything alright?”

Aman was not sure how to answer him. Kartik seemed to know it too. 

“I was thinking we should race,” continued Kartik “Properly.”

Aman tried to smile but it must have come out unconvincing. 

“Too soon?” asked Kartik. “That’s alright if you do not want to. But if you truly make me say it I’m not angry anymore.”

The lowest gate was now fully open.

“I know,” Aman urged his horse forward alongside Kartik. “I do not know how to explain it.”

“You do not have to explain if you do not feel like it,” said Kartik following him. “You do not owe me an explanation certainly. I just do not want you to feel guilty about what happened. We all have our moments of stupidity.”

“Not many of them end in death,” said Aman. 

Kartik grinned “I once set my mother’s favourite slippers on fire. I almost burned the whole room down in the process. It is a miracle no one was killed.”

Aman could not help but laugh at the image of a younger Kartik with devilish grin bending over his mother’s slippers with a lit match in hands, then of the shock on his face as he realised the situation was more dangerous than he anticipated.

“There,” said Kartik. “I have not seen you laugh or smile since the morning. I thought you-” Kartik paused. He did not continue.

“You thought what?” ventured Aman.

“Nothing,” said Kartik another mischievous grin graced his features. “The last one to the bottom of the slope is a lily-livered worm.”

Without warning, Kartik set Yaara into a gallop. Aman rolled his eyes, but excitement rather than fear burned in his heart and raced after him.

In the end, however, it was unclear who exactly had won. Instead of arguing with him, Kartik had turned Aman’s attention to the city of Shafaq itself. Thus Aman took in the city, his city, for the first time.

Shafaq was built into one of the smaller mountains that ringed a large tranquil lake. 

The five-tiered walls of the city were as white, if a little greyed by time and ruin, it did not show they glittered in the evening light like snow in the pale sunlight of midwinter. The spiralling watchtowers stood proudly.

The sight took Aman’s breath away. 

“I find it hard to think that this city was built by murderers,” said Aman softly.

“I think,” said Kartik. “It is wrong for us to divide everything into monstrous and beautiful. There is a little of both in everyone. It is what we choose to embrace that matters.”

There it was again, the matter of choice. But the choices before Aman were both monstrous. He could not find beauty in either of them.

Kartik sighed as his eyes swept over the lake “I could spend days sitting here and writing, it’s beautiful.”

“You can come down here as often as you like no one can stop you.” Though Aman said it with cheerfulness his heart felt heavy. He wanted to spend more time with Kartik. 

“It is called the Lake of Poets from memory,” said Kartik. “It would be rather fitting to complete my epic here.”

When the Great Burnings were orchestrated not everyone agreed with the decision of the monarchs to burn the books of the opposing nations. Many scholars and poets who had been studying each other’s literature could not bear to see great pursuit of knowledge laid to waste by the greed of kings. They could not bear to see sacred texts burned. 

So they had fled here to Shafaq the last stronghold of the combined intellect of both nations. They and the generations after them defended Shafaq and its books for one hundred years. Their last stand at his very lake. 

It would be fitting indeed for Kartik to finish his poem about the origins of the Great Burnings in the place where all the poets had gone to die because of it.

Thinking about the countless deaths of the scholars Aman felt a shiver run down his spine. As if he could feel the eyes of the dead on him. 

“Do you think Keshav is right about the books?” asked Aman. 

“Do you think they would give their lives for Shafaq if the books are not here somewhere?” questioned Kartik. “I hope we find them in time.”

Aman did not need to know what he meant by ‘in time’. He did not need to wonder why the books were so important to him. In the days after his injury, Kartik had been working furiously on his epic for Aayush and Taharin. So furiously that Aman had, on multiple occasions, offered to scribe for him in fear that Kartik may reopen his wound. Kartik had refused every time, not allowing anyone to see what he had written.

“We will,” said Aman. 

A silence fell between. There was nothing by the blue, purple-pink sunset above them turning the lake into a pool of amethysts and gold. The cool air in the late spring from the surrounding mountains and the smell of pine from the trees that dappled the mountainous region put Aman at ease.

“You said you would teach me how to swim,” said Kartik after a while. 

Aman looked at the lake, undisturbed by humans for perhaps centuries. Until now. Until them.

“We might as well start our lessons today.” conceded Aman getting off his horse. Kartik got off his own.

There was a slight cough from behind them. Aman turned to seen Zaim, Nasireh’s second-in-command, red-faced.

“Would you prefer it if we gave you some privacy, your majesties?”

Aman stood confused a for a few seconds before he heard Kartik’s laughter and understood exactly what Zaim meant. He felt his cheeks redden.

“I am afraid you and I have very different conceptions of swimming lessons.” Kartik smiled. “You do not have to give us privacy Zaim.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Song: [The Lakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOHcAc3r2kw) (Taylor Swift). I know I said on my ig this was a Ravi/Devi song but I listened to it on repeat for this chapter as you can clearly see.

[The Cold Dagger](https://www.instagram.com/p/CE4GZ_hFThy/) by Ellezaria

[CH 39](https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/17891351245555376/) Artwork by Hrtika

[Kartik and Aman](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFMM2CQHfqQ/) by Hrtika


	42. The Veil and the Brooch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mehan. I really shouldn't be dedicating this chapter to you since the whole story is yours anyway. But long before you decided to spam me with love for the outline on the doc this chapter was going to be yours for your love for Aayush and Taharin's tale. You wrote a whole fucking AU and I love you so much for it. 
> 
> Anyway Mehan's AU will be linked below. Give it a read it's magnificent. 
> 
> (thanks for the songs for this chapter too)

When the shadows burn our names away

When we lose our very last fight

When the heirs look to us to speak

We will paint our dreams in starlight

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Every fruitless day spent on the search for the lost books of Shafaq served only to dishearten Keshav, break down his hopes like a slow crumbling wall, dulling the lustre of his dreams to something the felt akin to settling for mediocrity. Despair seemed to wait around the corner the only thing that kept it at bay was Nasireh and Parvaaz’s presence.

Nasireh for their jokes, their spirit and Parvaaz in his quieter moments and his understanding. 

The three of them sat in Shafaq’s great library. Empty of all that had once made it great. Whenever Keshav closed his eyes he would imagine the library as it had once been. 

Every crevice filled with books as far as the eye could see. Sunlight streaming down from the windows, illuminating the gold leaf titles. In his mind’s eye, the library would be sprawling with scholars and artist. The very air brimming with debate, curiosity and dreams. Dreams most of all. The greatest intellectuals were all dreamers. 

And it had been his dream to see Shafaq restored to its glory.

But it was a dream that was dangerously close to perishing. 

“At least the fresco is beautiful,” said Nasireh.

Keshav turned his eyes to the magnificent fresco at the back of the library. It spanned the whole wall depicting two large _saapki_ , the triple-horned serpent-like mythical creatures that used to inhabit Eskabad entwined around each other. Their scales were iridescent, ringed with gold.

Though the fresco was magnificent Keshav had not given it much thought other than a pretty feature to embellish the library’s magnificence. 

“Are Saapki not traditionally Eskabadi?” asked Parvaaz, seemingly to have properly observed the fresco for the first time. 

Keshav remembered the Saapki bone necklaces that Kartik and Aman wore at their necks. 

“They are sacred to them,” said Keshav. “It is believed that their bones still hold magical properties thought magic has long gone from this world. It is strange that they are depicted here in a stronghold made by Erhan and Dilaram. Did not the Eskabadi hate them? For the massacres and their attempts to conquer and subjugate Eskabad?”

Nasireh’s stood and walked towards the fresco. “It is not that old.”

“How can you tell?” asked Keshav.

“The paint,” they said as a way of explanation. “My sister Hesara is an expert of sorts on frescos. The paint should be more faded. This fresco was a recent addition if anything, perhaps put in some time in the last few centuries.” they turned to Keshav and Parvaaz. “Maybe it has to do with Faneel.”

“Faneel?” questioned Keshav. The name was unfamiliar to him, but he was well versed in the language of Akhtar to know that the name was not Akhtari.

“A hero of Nasireh’s,” explained Parvaaz.

“Who were they?” asked Keshav turning his attention to Nasireh.

Nasireh’s eyes turned to the Saapki fresco “You do not know Faneel? They were a part of the Eskabadi delegation that came when Aayush and Taharin met.”

“I knew not there was an Eskabadi delegation,” said Keshav intrigued.

“I suppose not knowing that would have made it easier to hate us,” said Parvaaz. “For us to invite members of just your nation to our home and then slaughter them.” 

“It would have seemed a more grievous sin,” said Keshav. “The Mahanite queen of the time, Kairavi, mother to Aayush would likely have tried to keep that information hidden to justify the war. How many nations were present?”

“Four,” answered Parvaaz. “Akhtar, Mahan, Eskabad and the Southern Isles.”

It was something Keshav had not known, though he and Aman had indeed researched all they could to find the truth about the beginnings of the Three Hundred Year War. He wondered what more there was left hidden in this tale. 

“Faneel was third in line to the Eskabadi throne after their father and grandmother,” explained Nasireh. “It was said that they were good friends with Aayush and many of their exploits deserve an epic of their own.”

“What happened to them?” 

“After the death of Aayush and Taharin, they returned to Eskabad,” said Nasireh walking over the fresco. “On their return, the last Saapki had died.” their fingers brushed against the triple horns of the Saapki. “Magic, as they called it, had gone out of the world. When news of the Great Burnings reached them they left Eskabad once again only to return after ten years later when the Siege of Scholars finally ended.” Nasireh smiled and turned to Parvaaz and Keshav. “They said Faneel was a great painter.”

Keshav’s mind wondered at the information. “How do you know all this?”

“Eight years ago when Kartik went to Eskabad, I accompanied him. I wandered into one of the sacred mountain caves.” Nasireh’s eyes turned back to the fresco. “I saw a painting of Faneel, of course, I did not know it was them. I only marvelled at its beauty.” Nasireh grinned as if the old memory was precious to them. “Mihan, the Queen had found me, instead of chiding me for wandering into the sacred caves she had told me the tale of Faneel, all their exploits,” Nasireh furrowed their brow. “She told me all but one tale. That tale she said was a secret passed down through the Eskabadi dynasty though she dearly wanted to tell me seeing how much I had come to admire the monarch she had said the time was not right..”

_The time was not right._ The words raced through Keshav’s mind. That begged the question when exactly was the right time?

Keshav found himself looking far more closely at the details of the fresco. The painting though worn by time, were still vivid. An obscure mixture of myth and reality. Though there was irrefutable evidence that the saapki once existed Keshav could not imagine that the very earth he now walked had once laid witness to such magnificent creatures.

But something else caught his eye.

Despite having been in this room many times, despite having seen the fresco many times, for the first time, Keshav noted that laced around the coil of the two saapki were words emblazoned in what seemed to be dulled silver filigree. Their placement was subtle, almost blended into painting, but now that Keshav had seen them, they could not have been more obvious. 

It was a quatrain written in Eskabadi.

_As the warriors weep and the lovers fall_

_As the shadows sink and the fires take hold_

_Let us not forget those who laid their lives_

_Their sacrifices will become our war cry_

Keshav found himself frowning at the words. They were very clearly about the Great Burnings. It gave right to Nasireh’s theory that the fresco was a recent addition and not all by Erhan and Dilaram. It also gave right to their suspicions of Faneel’s involvement. Keshav thought about Faneel’s relationship with Aayush. He thought about Faneel’s disappearance from Eskabad, coinciding with the beginning and end of the Siege of Scholars. 

Getting from his seat he went to fresco and studied it closely. In the space between where the heads of saapki met Keshav could see two small fissures in the wall. Like the words, their inclusion was subtle almost a part of the painting. 

He reached out and touched the two fissures. They were wide enough to fit two small slim objects. Almost as if they were there to fit…

“Keys,” he said out loud.

Parvaaz and Nasireh turned to him expecting him to explain. But he did not. Instead, Keshav thought about what Mihan had said to Nasireh eight years ago. 

_The time was not right._

But what if it was now. 

He remembered Eskabad granting Kartik and Aman, Saapki bone necklaces. Necklaces that were only given to those they considered worthy. He remembered Aman and Ugdam’s words as the necklaces had been gifted to them.

_“How have we earned glory?” Aman had asked._

_“By bringing your countries to peace...Glory is not only earned in war, the greatest glory is found in making peace with our enemies, for that Eskabad salutes you.”_

“I think I know where the books are,” said Keshav. “And we are going to need Kartik and Aman.”

~~~

Kartik stood before the painting of the entwined saapki. Fingering the necklace that Mihan of Eskabad had gifted him. Keshav had given them a brief run-through of his theory. He had been speaking too fast, to eagerly for Kartik to catch on to everything. 

Aman seemed to understand it all, however.

“And these are the keys to the books?” he asked. The way he looked down at his necklace told Kartik that he had not expected the necklace to be the key. 

Keshav looked at both of them “It’s hard to explain. But I know it to be true. You must trust me on this.”

Besides Nasireh, Parvaaz, Keshav, Aman and Kartik himself, Devika was also here. Up until then she had been giving Keshav a doubtful quizzical look. Yet the conviction in his voice, the steady determination, the fire in his eyes all softened her look. Convinced her, and perhaps all of them that maybe what he was saying was not entirely in the realm of fantasy, in the realm of children’s tales but rather a reality. 

Aman was the first to act. He removed his necklace and handed it to his cousin firmly, squeezing his hands in the process, with a brotherly trust that Kartik was sure he had only ever read about in legend. Aman’s smile was proud more than anything. Kartik found himself following his husband’s lead, handing Keshav the necklace.

Keshav looked up at both of them, the look in his eyes was grateful more than anything. He smiled clutched the saapki bones firmly before turning towards the fresco. He took in a deep breath before approaching it. 

It was only when Keshav slipped the necklaces within the two fissures that Kartik realised they were there. For a moment nothing happened. For a moment all they could hear was the sounds of their own breaths. Then slowly, there was a low languorous creak. 

None of them were sure of the mechanics of it. None of them would be able to explain it if someone had asked. All they knew was that a lined appeared between the two saapki, the line grew wider, separating the saapki in such a way that they seemed no longer entwined but individual creatures in their own right. 

The cracked widened to reveal dimly cavern. The smell of old books was the first Kartik registered. 

The next thing was a yelp of joy that emanated from Aman. Kartik turned to see that his husband had embraced Keshav jumping up and down in his excitement. 

“You did it!” he cried out, squeezing his cousin tightly. “You crazy fucking fool you did it!”

Keshav stood still, taking this all in as if the very world had been handed to him. One by one they congratulated Keshav for his brilliance. Parvaaz had embraced him ruffling his hair. Devika had pinched his cheek before she too had embraced him. Kartik himself had gone in for a bear hug. Since Keshav was smaller and lighter than he was Kartik was able to momentarily lift him off the ground. 

Nasireh was the last to congratulate Keshav. They squeezed Keshav’s shoulder seemingly afraid to do more. The smile on both their faces however made up for the lack of closeness. Kartik realised then that he should never have felt threatened by Nasireh’s attentions towards Aman. Their eyes had always been somewhere else. 

After the euphoria settled they turned their attention to books themselves. Kartik was sure all the books had ever seen in his lifetime could not amount to how many stood here. Behind the saapki fresco was not merely one chamber, but many interconnected chambers and caverns, each and every one of them filled to the brim with papers, scrolls and books. 

It would take at least a decade to sort through them all. 

What Kartik marvelled at the most however was the fact the books were not haphazardly arranged. They impeccably ordered, with various tags interspersed between different books. Of course, they would be ordered, Kartik should not have expected it to be otherwise. These were after all left behind by scholars. 

Kartik did not step forward though he longed to touch the historic books. Instead, he watched Keshav. Aman had told him that it had been a long-held dream of Keshav’s to discover these very books and he had done exactly that. It would only be fitting if he were to be the one who touched them first.

Kartik wondered briefly which book he would take up first. Where he would start in this immense pile.

Though Keshav’s eyes scanned over the books in amazement they soon fell on something else. Kartik turned to where his gaze was fixed to see a slim rectangular object wrapped in what seemed a gold embroidered lavender cloth held together by an amethyst and silver brooch shaped like a rose. 

The object stood apart from the other books. Uncategorised. Unnoticed. Until now.

Keshav went to it and took it up in his hands. For a moment he studied the object turning it over in hands, studying the object, frowning as he did so. He did not know what to make of it, no one did. Curiosity eventually won out, slowly but deftly he unpinned the brooch and undid the lavender cloth, which seemed to look more like a veil as Keshav unravelled it. 

The object underneath seemed to be a slim leather-bound book. It had no title or embellishment. It looked more like a journal than anything else. 

Carefully Keshav opened it, upon scanning the first few words he smiled. 

“What is it?” asked Nasireh. 

“Something that would please you very much,” answered Keshav. “This was written in Faneel’s hand. It seems to be a documentation of the Siege of Scholars.”

Kartik could feel his heart race. Faneel, monarch of Eskabad, friend to Aayush and Taharin, a witness to the countries before the Great Burnings. This could reveal so much. He felt a sense of hope burgeon in him at the sight of Faneel’s journal and the lost books. Not all was lost. What he and Aman had worked towards would amount to something before his death. 

Keshav flicked through the pages his smile growing wider. 

“Are you going to keep it all to yourself?” asked Devika playfully. 

“Perhaps you can read it out loud,” suggested Nasireh quietly. Their voice held a certain affection, a certain pleading that Kartik rarely heard. 

Keshav returned to the first page of the journal and read.

“As I, Faneel of Eskabad, write this, let it be known that the Siege fo Scholars has begun in earnest. Though the caverns and the lock have been long constructed it will take us many years to organise and put away all the books, for this reason, we will protect the palace of Shafaq for as long as we can.

“If you are reading this you will already know that two bones of the Saapki are required to open this vault. What you may not however know is that these bones are in reality the two uppermost pieces of the saapki’s sternum. It is not, mind you, from any dead saapki, but the last saapki to ever grace the earth.

“Unfortunately, I was not in Eskabad when it died, I was in Khorshid witnessing two other deaths. Those of my dear friend the Crown Prince of Mahan Aayush and of the beloved Princess Taharin. I remember their deaths even now as I sit in this library under the low candlelight. I was holding onto Aayush’s brooch, amethyst and silver fashioned like a rose. He had given it to me as a gift before he had been captured. I remember how Taharin had taken a sword from one of the guards, for her father had forbidden her from touching ever her own weapons when Aayush was captured.

“I remember how she had plunged it into Aayush’s chest, as he hung from the battlements by one hand. It was mercy compared to horrors that had been administered to his body. Horrors which I cannot bring to describe on paper. 

“I remember seeing the life leave from his eyes, his last smile had been for her, his last words for her. We had all heard them. _Janhai so_ he had said. The Mahanite words, used in classic love poetry to say ‘my soul is yours’. In turn, Taharin, using words from in Akhtari love poetry, had said _humchal parashe ‘_ your soul is in my heart’.

“When he died Taharin had turned to her father. We had all expected words of defiance. But she only stared at Jahan, her eyes red, haggard and wild. Her short brown curls tangling in the wind. She kept staring as she walked to the edge of the battlements sword still in hand. She wore a lavender anarkali that day, the one Aayush had gifted her on their first meeting, much like the sword she was holding it was stained with her lover’s blood. 

“Her silence spoke more than her words ever could. And Jahan knew it. The winds were strong that day, it blew her veil away from her body landing at my feet. I stooped to pick it up thinking naively that she would want it back. When I had uprighted myself she was no longer on the battlements. Where she had been was only the bloodied sword she used to kill Aayush. 

“We had all thought the fire in her eyes was fury. We had all thought she would kill her father. I think Jahan thought so too. But she had killed herself. The fire in her eyes had not been fury but despair. I stood bereft as Taharin fell, holding her veil and Aayuhs’s brooch.

“It was then we heard a cry. Unearthly and full of pain. Others will give you many explanations for it, or perhaps they will not. They all seem hell-bent on forgetting their history. But I recognised it. The death cry of the Saapki, it had died the same moment Taharin had. Along with it had died the blessings of the Gods, or what the ignorant like to call sorcery or magic. 

“It felt like something had been ripped away from the very air. The fire and the light drained from our bodies and breath. It felt like the day without its sun. The night without the moon and stars. 

“In those very moments, I had seen flashes of what was to come. By the time you read this, you may not know, but the gods had once blessed the monarchs of every nation with foresight. What we monarchs do with this foresight is entirely a matter of the heart, and when the heart is corrupted liked Jahan’s was the blessing is taken away. Jahan’s corruption was so great that it had stripped the world of its blessings. I knew then that those scant images were the last I will see. 

“I saw the burning of history, knowledge, I saw the destructions of lives. I saw death. But I saw also hope. A lavender banner with a gold lion, silver eagle wings. I saw a sapphire dagger and a ruby necklace. I saw a black star fall over the mountains of Eskabad. I saw two kings, hand in hand, taking their vows in the light of the dying sun. I saw a Saapki emerge from the snow.

“I knew then it was my task to keep safe the histories of Shafaq, they contained after all the books and teachings of all four nations. I knew then also that the gods had not abandoned us. That a day will come when we will rise again from the ashes of the Great Burnings. So I entrust my story and the keys to heirs of Eskabad. I know one day they will fulfil the duties of the gods and reopen the past when it is safe for the Kingdoms of Mahan and Akhtar to do so. When there is peace.”

Keshav paused. “It goes on to talk about the siege of scholars afterwards, and more on Aayush and Taharin, it’s very lengthy.” he looked up at them all. “I never imagined that…”

His voice cracked. Tears seemed to fill his eyes and it was Aman who the first to embrace him. Holding him as he wept. Kartik tried to imagine what it would feel to have your dreams manifest before you. It must feel magnificent and frightening at the same time. 

Keshav pulled away from Aman and grinned through his tears “If Jaimini he were here…”

“She would be proud,” said Aman softly. “Just like we all are. I am so proud you can’t even begin to understand.”

Keshav was grinning. Grinning as Kartik had never seen him grin before. 

Devika spoke next “Gods be good I never thought that it would still exist.” she whispered looking back at the space where the fresco had once been, where Kartik and Aman’s necklaces still stood. “So there is still magic in this world. There could be no other explanation for the doors and the saapki bones. Don’t the Eskabadi believe there is still magic in their bones.”

“Faneel’s visions,” said Parvaaz. “It all happened, the ruby necklace, the sapphire dagger were the tributes of war turned to peace. The dark star had fallen in Eskabad in days before Kartik and Aman wed. Our new banner is a gold lion with silver wings on a lavender cloth.”

“By Noor’s light,” exclaimed Nasireh. “There is mention of the saapki returning, could it be that these so-called blessings, that magic could return.”

“I doubt it,” said Devika. “If it does I do not think it will be the same as it once was.”

“There is only one problem with Faneel’s vision,” said Aman. “We had actually married at sunrise not in the light of a dying sun.”

“There is not much difference between the sight of a birthing sun or a dying one,” said Kartik. “I think they may have been confused.”

Aman turned to Kartik then. The apparent topic of birth and death, bringing the inevitable question “Will you be able to finish your poem on time with all this new information?”

“Yes,” answered Kartik. “Quicker now in fact.”

Before he had only fragments of a tale. With Faneel’s account, the story of Aayush and Taharin was forming quickly, more eloquently in his mind, much clearer than it had been. The fragments of his epic were finally arranging themselves into order. He had given up hope in completing the first draft before he died. But now it seemed the fulfilment of Keshav’s life dream would enable his own.

“On time?” questioned Devika. “I did not know Kartik had a deadline.”

Aman and Kartik exchanged glances. Kartik felt the colour race to his cheeks. They had made a mistake.

Kartik racked his brains for an explanation of their little slip-up. It came to him quickly. 

“It will soon be six months since the day we wed Devi. On that day our marriage will be legalised according to Akhtari customs. I wanted to gift the epic to Aman.” the next words came with much difficulty and he wondered if Aman would register that he meant them in earnest. “Aman was the driving force behind every word, he was my muse. It is only fitting that epic should be his.”

If Aman suspected anything he did not show it. His features were as impenetrable as ever.

“What are you getting Kartik?” Devika asked Aman. 

Caught off guard Aman did not answer her, instead opting at his feet not meeting anyone’s eye. Gratefully Devika interpreted the situation in a different light altogether. She grinned.

“So it is _that_ kind of gift. Never mind I do not want to know.”

Aman’s reddening features only served to strengthen her judgement. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the Taharin’s veil and Aayush’s brooch in Keshav’s hands.

“They should be interred in the palace’s gallery. We should put them alongside the bloody necklace and the cold dagger, to symbolise the beginning and the end of the war. It will start the process of honouring them as we should have done many years ago.” he turned to Kartik. “With this and your poem, will be rewriting their history so to speak.”

* * *

Songs:  
  


[Meet Me on the Battlefield](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZrddJPGp1I) by SVRCINA

[It Comes Back to You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v869YR_nTuU) by Imagine Dragons

[Mad Woman](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=6DP4q_1EgQQ) by Taylor Swift for Taharin


	43. The Stars Have Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HITESH WILL NEVER SEE THIS BUT I DEDICATE THIS CHAPTER TO HIM BC ITS HIS BIRTHDAY AND HE HAS GIVEN US SO FUCKING MUCH.
> 
> HITESH SIR YOU ARE AMAZING AND I LOVE SO MUCH. THANK YOU FOR BEING BORN, FOR EXISTING. FOR GIVING US THE MOVIE AND THE OPPORTUNITY TO BE SO MUCH MORE.
> 
> So this is the chapter both Dhyan and Mehan have been waiting for. I don't remember who suggested it first but they both did at some point and like I was like in my head "well good news for you bc I DO HAVE A STARGAZING SCENE!"
> 
> Be warned this is very angsty tho. 
> 
> The music for this is extensive bc both of these kiddos (well Dhyan is a kiddo Mehan is a boomer) suggested many many songs. Also, remember to check out the latest chapter of 'let's rewrite our history' as always the fic is linked below (i need to do this myself but unfortunately my Dad decided to lecture us for an hour straight so my time is very limited).

You close your eyes and turn your back

The stars have died as you looked away

Raise your sword and be prepared

For they still whisper your fate

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

The whole of Shafaq was sent in a fury of excitement when news of the books reached everyone else. The nations seemed to have taken them up with the same zeal that they had once burned them. This was something that Devika had found rather amusing. She wondered briefly whether their ancestors cursed them or whether they were proud.

Either way, it did not matter to Keshav or Parvaaz. They, along with a team of scholars from both nations, had started the laborious process of going through all the books and ledgers. A history burned now rising again from the ashes. 

She had always known objectively that one day her name, all their names would be remembered for better or worse. They had been given great power and great responsibility and with that came remembrance. It was a matter of what you did with your life that determined your legacy. Ever since the discovery of the books, through the Saapki bones, for first time Devika felt that she was a part of something glorious. Something beautiful. 

Indeed there seemed to be a change in the very air. It carried the glow of embers, not quite the ignition of a flame. It almost had her convinced that perhaps the legends were not all wrong. It almost made her believe in magic. Almost. 

It could also just be the change in weather, from spring to summer air. 

For a week most people were busy with the books. Devika’s presence was hardly needed so she occupied her time either talking with Kusum or walking in the gardens with Ravi. She had liked him on their brief visits to Kashatr and their conversations had fallen back onto the old patterns established in the little village. He was still intelligent and his advice was still sound. He was also still undeniably beautiful.

From time to time Devika would remember the day the sat together in the frozen nightshade garden. When she had felt herself wilting. She would remembered his words most of all, they would never leave him.

_ Face whatever it is head on. _

Somehow int he last few months they had become the doctrine of her life. 

As she walked often by him in the gardens Shafaq, apologising for the delay in his meeting with the kings, she would find herself comfortable in just listening to him speak. When she listened she understood exactly why they named him high-priest.

He had a quiet charm and cat-like grace that drew you in without you knowing. With this grace and charm there came a certain power that seemed to ebb and flow in his every movement, a commanding presence that was hard to ignore. He had a sharp tongue too and it reminded her exactly why she had enjoyed his presence, why she had liked him more than other priests. 

In short, she enjoyed her time with him, more perhaps than she ought to.

Now Devika was sitting by Kartik and Aman’s side in the counsel chamber. Ravi had been summoned to a private meeting with the kings, advisors and their families. The matter of an heir to the thrones was after all a matter that concerned everyone.

She leaned towards Kartik “When an heir is chosen will they call me Umchi?”

She used the Akhtari word for aunt. 

“Of course,” he said smiling slightly. 

There was something strained there, something painful hidden behind his bright facade. He seemed almost afraid and a little saddened. Devika thought of Kartik’s own father then. Though Kartik had often expressed interest in raising his own child, she understood that there would be a certain fear there too. 

He did not want to end up like Jagesh.

“You are going to be a great father,” she assured, in a whisper that only he could hear, him placing a hand on his shoulder. “You and Aman both.” then she smiled. “Only I will be a better Aunt.”

Kartik’s grin this time was genuine and she felt warmth blossom in her chest at the sight of his smile. It was another thing she was glad of, it was easier to make him smile, truly smile, now than it had been only a few years ago.

It was then that door of the council room opened to reveal the figure of Ravi. He dressed in the dark robes of the priests of Okhine with its bones clasp at one shoulder holding it in place. She found herself checking in burgeoning feelings for him. He was after all a priest and she highly placed in court. Nothing would ever come out of it. 

“Sit,” gestured Aman. “We have much to talk about.”

Ravi took a chair opposite the kings and sat with languid ease.

“Wine?” offered Kartik, drawing a jug towards him from the table. 

“As you wish,” acceded Ravi.

Since no servants were present, Kartik poured the glass himself and handed it to Ravi. “Our apologies for the delay. There were other matters that needed attending to.”

“Not to worry,” assured Ravi. “The blessings of the gods come when they will and it seemed they are content in bestowing them one after the other. Justice has been served, the books have been found. In comparison meeting with me would have been a rather trivial matter.” 

“How is Kashatr?” asked Aman. 

“Well,” answered Ravi. “My Grandmother, Vahi, sends her greetings. She hopes you are well settled here.” 

“Give her our thanks and let her know we are indeed well settled,” said Kartik. “Shafaq is lovely is it not?” 

“It is as the legends tell it,” agreed Ravi, his attention shifted to Aman. “I sense there is another question on your mind.”

Aman smiled “How is Sarai? The little girl, she was taken in as a novice a couple of months before the marriage.”

“She is well, excelling in her studies and lessons.” Ravi put his wine glass down. “This reminds me. She asked me to give you this.”

He reached into the folds of his robe and brought out a carving of a rose and handed it to Kartik “She said she felt terrible for only gifting Aman something for the wedding and not you.”

Kartik took the rose in his hand, the trembled slightly. Devika knew why. Roses, white ones especially, reminded Kartik of his mother Lekisha. She understood the grief, she saw the memories mist over his eyes. She wanted to do nothing more than embrace him.

Somehow he managed a smiled “When you see her next tell her that I adored it. Tell her that the rose is my favourite flower. Tell her she has great talent.”

“I will,” Ravi promised. 

“His return depends on the manner in which the meeting will proceed,” said Sunaina. “I believe this concerns heirs to the throne.”

Ravi smiled “The priests of Okhine have divined your reign to be especially auspicious. It is our duty to ensure that it lasts for a long time yet. There is peace for the first time, it is in the best interest of all to continue this peace.”

“An heir of blood would be indisputable,” said Kaali. “It is the preferred option.”

Bloodline as a basis for familial connection was dying out in both nations but it had not entirely reached its demise yet. While family was no longer counted in whose blood you shared but rather whose legacy you carried, it still remained that one could claim titles through their blood.

Devika glanced between Kartik and Aman. She knew what Kaali was suggesting. Surrogacy. It was another method of producing an heir when the marriage itself could not produce any. Both Kartik and Aman blanched at the thought. 

_ No  _ realised Devika  _ that would not serve. _

For one they would have to find a suitable woman to carry out the pregnancy. For another, it would cause a rift. Who out of the two kings would be the father to this child. Would it invalidate the claim of the other king, make him seem lesser? Would it not give rise for the purists of both nations to either assert their authority over the other or rebel? 

Besides she knew enough of Kartik and Aman to know they had no intention of bedding anyone outside each other, be it even for the benefit of the country, not when there were other options available.

“My father always said,” started Devika. “That blood doesn’t make family, but hearts certainly do.” she turned to Kartik and Aman. “You should take up a child of the gods.”

Taking on a child of God was the royal equivalent to adoption. They would take in a novice, usually orphans, of either Okhine, Shamsheer or Noor. Nasireh and their sisters had been children of Noor, Parmesh, unmarried and childless, had taken them up as his own so to ensure the Kafur name lived on. 

“While I agree with Kaali,” continued Devika. “In that bloodlines are  _ usually _ indisputable, these are  _ not _ usual times. We are speaking of the unity of the two nations. Having only one of the bloodlines continue would not be right. A child of the gods would ensure a new beginning and a fair one.”

When Ravi met her eye she could see a hint of admiration in his bright green eyes. She did not feel abashed by his attention, she felt pride. It rose in her chest, bloomed, unfurled like a flower. She knew beyond a doubt that her suggestion was the only viable one. 

Kaali bowed his head in compliance. Kartik and Aman smiled at her gratefully. 

“I do not think the sovereigns either of the nations has chosen a child of God in many years,” said Keshav. “Though the tale of Zainab and Samira is often quoted. I think many of our monarchs were too afraid to truly follow through with their example. There have only been a few monarchs in history who have done so.”

Thousands of years ago the Queen Samira had fallen in love with one of her Ladies-in-Waiting, Zainab. In those times no matter what one’s personal preference, the royal marriages were more often than not between men and women, especially if an heir was to be produced from it, as in the case of kings and queens. However, the love of Samira and Zainab was so formidable that they had defied all custom and had married. When the time came for Samira to produce an heir, she announced that no man will touch her body, not even to give her child.

The two queens had then been visited by the priests and priestesses of Okhine had ordained that because of their great love the god had granted them a daughter, a novice of Okhine, Liyah. The practice became known as the Child of God, royal couples who could not conceive children of their own body, were granted an heir by the temple.

The concept, in theory, was a good one, but there were still those who believed in the bloodline. More than half of these Children of God had been slaughtered by greedy and ambitious cousins.

“I think the plan a sound one,” said Kartik quietly. “And it should be enacted as quickly as possible.”

That indeed surprised Devika. She had assumed by their amorousness they were not entirely ready to take upon the responsibility of a child. 

It was Sunaina who spoke “Would you and Aman not like some time together alone before taking up such a responsibility? I never had the privilege with Shankar, there was always pressure to provide an heir. I as a mother would advise you both to cherish the time you have. We are no longer at war.”

Kartik’s expression shifted to something Devika could not quite place. 

“We can take no chances,” said Aman softly, he was also solemn. “You all saw what happened with Mandhav. There will be many more attacks in the times to come, peace is not entirely attained.”

Kartik’s injury had been a trying time for them all. Devika understood his fear. Not for the first time she was glad that Kartik had married someone like him. Besides Aman was right. The could take no chances.

“Very well then,” said Ravi. “I will see to preparations for the ceremony, and select among my finest novices as candidates.”

“You will be going back to Kashatr then?” asked Kaali.

Ravi grinned “If there is another temple dedicated to Okhine near Shafaq I am unaware of it.”

But Parvaaz seemed to understand what Kaali was suggesting what they had all been planning since they decided Balkari was to be the official tongue of the two nations.

“You were there when the announcement of language was made were you not?” asked Parvaaz. 

“I was” affirmed, Ravi.

“Kaali and I are to take a team of scholars to Balkar to study the language in earnest,” said Parvaaz. “Perhaps it would be best for us to travel together.”

Ravi smiled “It would be an honour.”

Devika almost volunteered herself to go. But her place was by Kartik’s side. As it always was. As it always will be.

~~~

The month after the three of them left was mainly filled with correspondence from Kashatr or helping Keshav with the books. Form the reports they received news of Mandhav’s exhausting labour in rebuilding Kashatr, they received details of Parvaaz’s undertaking with the Balkari language and of Kaali’s assistance. These were interspersed with personal happenings and musings. 

While Kaali and Parvaaz would often write everything in one letter Rajini would send three. One meant for the eyes of the kings and the court, another meant for family and a final one meant for Kusum and Kusum alone.

As much as Aman was happy for his cousin and Kusum, he could not help but feel empty and envious at the thought of the love they shared. He knew he should not feel this way, cloud their happiness with his own negativity, but he felt it anyway. Every time he saw Kusum’s eye brighten as she held each and every letter in her hand he could not help but wish his own feelings for Kartik were not permanently stained. 

As time passed by the shadow of Kartik’s death loomed over both of them, a shadow neither of them wanted to acknowledge. So it came to be, a week before Aman would take Kartik’s life, he lay in bed looking up the canopy. 

It was a rich plum velvet, as were the curtains of the bed. The fresh spring air had shifted to balmy summer one and briefly, Aman considered changing the curtains to a much thinner material. Perhaps gauze? He knew he should have done it earlier but the events of the last two months, Kartik’s injury, Mandhav’s trial and the discovery of the lost books had barely given him time to consider redecorating.

He decided on doing it after he killed Kartik. If he killed Kartik. 

It was not the first time he had felt conflicted and he knew in the week to come it would not be the last. He knew if this was a story, if he were a figure of fiction, told to children on sleepless nights he would have had his realisation, his glorious discovery the day Kartik was injured. If this was a story his discovery would be one of love. A love that transcended all the restrictions had placed upon himself. He would have forgiven Kartik as he lay fighting for life. And when he would have awoken Aman would have told him that he loved him. And they would live happily ever after.

It was a fairytale, a dream. 

Reality was never that simple.

Kartik’s injury had complicated things rather than solved them. Aman  _ had _ come to a realisation. He realised he cared for Kartik more than he was supposed to and that might prevent him from fulfilling his vengeance. A part of his mind told him to give up but he could not.

There had been many times in his life when he had been teetering on the edge of life and death. The precise scars on thighs marked that inglorious battle. And it had been vengeance, this promise, this oath, that had tipped the scales on the side of life. How could he give up something that had saved him from ruin?

And yet he knew that life after Kartik would be just as harrowing as giving up his oath. 

As if summoned by his thoughts the door opened to reveal Kartik with Gabru beside him. He and the dog had just arrived from the lake of poets, the box containing his epic and his various pens. He had taken to spending his evenings there to write and was surprisingly tranquil for someone who was going to die in a week’s time. He even smiled as soon as he saw Aman. 

Aman hated him for his cheerfulness. 

“You’re late,” he said. 

Kartik put his box down on the study as Gabru greeted Aman by licking his fingers, “I had a bout of inspiration. Also, I want to show you something.”

Before Aman could answer, Kartik went behind a screen, changing out his sherwani to more comfortable clothes. That was another thing that Aman had picked up on. Ever since his own drunken incident in Khorshid he had noted that Kartik now wore a shirt every time they went to sleep despite the heated change in weather. 

He wondered sometimes at what exactly he had said to Kartik in his drunken state. Whether he had made some hurtful comment on Kartik’s scars or had hinted at his own attraction towards him. Whatever it was it had made Kartik uncomfortable and a part of Aman hated himself for it.

“What do you want to show me?” asked Aman tentatively. 

Kartik’s eyes gleamed “I cannot tell you yet.” he looked up at Aman the gleam in his eyes turning focused in the expression of his that often made Aman’s heart sink then rapidly rise, as if it wanted to leap out of his chest. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

The word, the damned word had escaped Aman’s lips before he could stop it. He blamed it on the other man’s damned expression and he wondered if Kartik knew exactly what it did to him. 

He could not however think of taking those words back. When Kartik smiled again at his answer, it seemed to put the very sun to shame. Aman could not lie to himself any longer. Kartik’s smile was something he looked forward to seeing every day.

“Then get up and come.” 

Curiosity won out. Aman rose from the bed and followed Kartik as walked out the door leading him through corridors and winding steps, until they reached a part of the palace Aman had not yet visited. All the while Gabru walked between them. 

“Gabru and I have been exploring,” explained Kartik. “In the moments when I cannot write, I wanted to take everything, all of it in. And I discovered something”

“Did you find more lost artefacts?” asked Aman. 

Kartik laughed “Nothing as significant as that but just as beautiful all the same.” 

Aman was not entirely sure what he should be expecting, knowing Kartik it could be anything. What had not, however, come into the realms of his imagination was winding stairs that lead to a tower. When Kartik started to take his first step up Aman paused.

“Are you going to try and push me off?” he asked.

“You said you trusted me.” Kartik reminded him, continuing his ascent Gabru following his owner’s lead. 

It was true, Aman did. There was no one he trusted more strangely enough. So he followed him up the winding stairs. The tower was quite possibly the tallest tower in the palace, in any palace perhaps. Aman could not ever recall climbing so many steps at once.

When they reached the top of the stairs he understood why.

“And observatory?” questioned Aman staring at his surroundings, celestial maps carved into the very walls, no roof or ceiling between them and the heavens, perfect for a large telescope. “Erhan and Dilaram truly thought of everything when they built this palace.”

“It was meant to be capital, the centre of everything the nations, intellect,” Kartik’s eyes met his. “I did not bring you here to talk about history.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe.”

The corner of Kartik’s lips curled into a smile “Look up.”

Slowly Aman raised his eyes to the heavens. The heavens met his eyes with a thousand glittering stars. 

Stars. 

Pinpricks of clear, distilled light, dotted in the sky above. He had seen stars before, he saw them every night, but there was something about now, something different. Seeing them like this that reminded him there were things far bigger than him or Kartik or their nations. It was a primal feeling of fascination, one that inspired many litanies on the beauty of the night sky. 

But no words, no poet could do justice to what was above him. There were some things you had to see with your eyes, to feel with your body, to taste with your own tongue to know their true worth. Something as simple as hearsay, as someone else’s vain attempt to describe what could not be put into words, would never serve justice to the sight above him. 

“We have been holed up in the palace for months looking over administration, signing things, overseeing the books.” said Kartik, then he seemed to grow abashed. “I thought it would be nice to relax here. In truth, It’s not very interesting or exciting, I am sorry that-”

“They are beautiful,” Aman whispered. He was not sure of the last time he had simply looked up to observe the stars. Let himself map the constellations at his own leisure.

And Kartik was right. They needed time to relax. 

“If you plan on  _ standing _ here all night,” said Kartik mischievously. “You are going to have very sore legs by morning.”

“That will give everyone something to talk about,” Aman muttered. 

Kartik laughed sitting down on the stone floor, Gabru nestled himself on his lap. Kartik beckoned for Aman to sit beside him, which he did without hesitation. He found himself leaning against Kartik slightly as he did so. It seemed, it felt almost natural. His mind told him to sever the connection here and now. To push him away before he made things more complicated for himself. But his body rebelled. He remained. 

It felt like that night in the temple, all those months ago when they first met under the blind gaze of Okhine. Where they had let go of all their inhibitions. They were not longer kings in this moment, but two men who sat side by side in the quiet of the night.

“Do you map the stars differently in Mahan?” Kartik asked. 

“I’m not sure,” said Aman truthfully “How do you map them in Akhtar?”

Kartik pointed up to a cluster of stars. He drew out a certain shape. Aman knew it well.

“We call that Okhine’s eyes for…”

“...it is believed that when the great enemy took them out they were sent to heavens to watch over us.”

“So the constellations are the same in both nations.”

“That remains yet to be seen,” said Aman he pointed in another direction. “I doubt you have the Bandit’s Knife, it was named for the Bandit Queen, a hero in Mahan. She was from the Rill of Dragonflies, it’s where my mother grew up.”

Kartik smiled “No we do not have that particular constellation. I remember Uncle Chaman’s song about her. She rebelled against Erhan and Dilaram did she not.”

“She did,” Aman smiled. “I pretended to be her every time Keshav and I played at legends.”

When Aman turned back to look at Kartik he realised the emotions there were those of affection. Kartik’s love, however much there was, seemed to seep into the very recesses of his being. It was infectious. 

“I suppose you do no have Khilji also known the Warrior then,” Kartik pointed to another cluster of stars they too were familiar.

“We do have the Warrior,” said Aman. “Except we call her Varushka. I suppose you have the Saapki too?”

Aman pointed out the graceful curl of the serpent in the skies. 

“Of course,” said Kartik. “I believe that’s the Eskabadi influence on both our nations.”

“Their influence saved our history from falling to the flames,” Aman reminded him.

“Thank Faneel’s foresight, speaking of books and history do you have the Lion?”

“No.”

Kartik pointed to the Northernmost direction of the sky. “Sailors of Akhtar use them to find their way home.”

Aman noticed where he was pointing, drawing out the shape of a lion, unbeknownst to him the Akhtari constellation overlapped with a Mahanite one.

“In Mahan we use a set of stars, near abouts, we call it the Eagle.” he said showing him as he did so.

“Typical,” said Kartik. “The national pride of our ancestors have reached even the heavens. It is strange though.”

“What is?”

“That we ascribe meanings and draw connections between thousands of disembodied celestial objects. I do not think the gods had meant for us to ever give stories to the stars.”

“Or maybe they did,” suggested Aman. “And maybe they are disembodied precisely so we could ascribe our own individual meanings to them.”

“Are you suggesting we rewrite centuries worth of star maps?”

“I am suggesting that we rip them to shreds and give them meanings of our own.”

“The poor astronomers, and sailors,” joked Kartik. “I did not know you were so heartless?”

_ You did know  _ thought Aman.  _ You knew it all yet you decided to marry me anyway. _

Aman turned his attention to where the Saapki and the Bandit’s Knife stood next to each other. Lazily he drew a finger, making new connections “If I were an astronomer would call this one  _ Ravneet. _ ”

“It’s a beautiful name,” said Kartik. “What does it mean?”

“It was my grandmother’s, it meant the mercy of the gods.”

Kartik sighed and looked up “I would name this one Gabru,” he drew a vague figure of Gabru in the heavens. Then he grinned down at the canine in question scratching him behind the ears. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

Gabru regarded him languidly, he did not seem to object to the notion.

Kartik’s eyes turned once again towards the Northern Stars, they widened in surprise “They make a Winged Lion.”

“What?” the statement had thrown him off guard.

Without a word Kartik drew him into a half embrace, pulling him close to his body, so that Aman’s head now rested under Kartik’s chin, in order to see the stars clearer from Kartik’s eyes. He was glad at least from this angle that Kartik would not see him turn red. 

Kartik traced out the shape of the symbol of a winged lion combining the two constellations into one. 

“Look,” he whispered in Aman’s ear. “Can you see it now?”

“Yes.” he breathed.

Aman could indeed see it. The Northern Stars, the guiding stars of their respective nations, combined. Their tale it seemed had been written long ago.

“Do you have any more?”

Aman leaned back into Kartik’s hold, relaxing against him. He drew out another figure in the stars.

“Jaimini,” he said softly. 

Keshav’s love, his wife to be. Aman’s friend. His best friend. She had been the only one, he had considered a true friend, whose friendship was born from not from blood or power, but true affection. One would have thought he would have named a constellation after his father. But he could not. Shankar Tripathi’s ghost lived in his sword, his vengeance, in himself. He belonged there.

Jaimini belonged to the stars.

“Who was she?” asked Kartik.

“My friend, Keshav’s love,” explained Aman. “She would have liked you.”

They sat again in silence and neither of them moved. It seemed neither of them wanted to. Why did being in Kartik’s arms seem like the most natural thing in the world?

“My Ma always said that when we die we turn to stars,” said Kartik quietly. Aman knew he was looking at the Evenstar the brightest star in the sky. “When she died I would spend hours looking at the brightest star in the sky, thinking it was her.”

Aman looked at the Evenstar now and he knew in the days after Kartik’s death which star he would be staring at the most. 

“I think,” whispered Aman. “The gods would have reserved the Evenstar for you.”

He was not sure what had made him say it. Perhaps it was the feeling of Kartik’s arms, the knowledge that he would be ripped away from him soon. But he had said the words. He had said them with conviction. He meant them in earnest. 

He could hear Kartik’s breath hitch at the words. He could feel him shift slightly. 

“You know,” he said and Aman knew this was a moment of vulnerability. “You know I am not afraid of dying. Not really. Death itself is not something I fear.”

“What are you afraid of?” asked Aman.

“I am afraid of my dreams, I am afraid of being alone. I am afraid for our nations. I trust you with them but I cannot help being afraid. I am also afraid for the others when I ago. But I think am most afraid of what they will say to you when they find out.” he paused. “I am afraid for you.”

Aman had not truly thought of it. What the others would say. He had no intention of lying but he knew that the truth would be hard for them to bear. 

“Why should you care about happens to me afterwards?” said Aman. 

For a while, Kartik did not answer. For a while, it seemed as if he was deliberating something. Finally, he spoke.

“It’s because I am in love with you.”

At first, Aman was not sure he heard him right. When the words sunk in Aman’s reaction was instinctive. He moved away from Kartik, out his arms and he turned to look him in the eye. To see if he truly mean it. A part of him rejoiced. Another part of hated Kartik for it. 

He wore his heart on his sleeve. He always had and Aman wondered how he could have been daft enough not to see it. Here Kartik was laying his heart out, offering it up to him, baring the very recesses of his soul. His very expression seemed to beg Aman for tenderness. It seemed to say  _ if you are to let me down, do it gently.  _

“I have loved you since the day at the temple,” said Kartik, as if he knew Aman was measuring the truth in his words. “And I will love until the day I die.”

His sincerity scared Aman. It scared him because somehow despite everything Kartik did not fear him. He braved cruelty, he was fearless in the face, in order to love a man who would kill him. It scared him because Aman had nought to offer him. Not when vengeance followed the wake of their every movement. It would be better for the both of them if he tore Kartik’s offering of love to shreds. 

He let out a sneer. 

“Do you really believe this confession changes anything?” he asked. “Your feelings mean nothing to me. Nothing.”

“I know,” his voice was calm.

Aman had to admire his fortitude in the face of cruelty. He wanted to take his words back to tell him that underneath his twisted convoluted sense of honour, he felt the same. But cruelty was better than complicating everything with love. 

“I know,” continued Kartik. “Only promise me that you will at least lie about it. You will only turn them against you. It would destroy everything that we worked for. Surely that takes precedence over your honour.”

Honour was the only thing that made sense to Aman. Everyone else’s feelings be damned. 

“I will make no such promise.” he announced defiantly. 

“Not even if I declared it to be my last wish?”

“You will make no such wish I forbid it.”

Kartik let out a sardonic laugh “You are already taking my life at least give me the freedom of choosing my last wish. You should honour that much at least.”

“Do not bring  _ my _ honour into this.”

“It is because of your damned god forsaken convoluted sense of fucking honour that we are even having this conversation.”

Kartik had shouted the words. The rang through the star mapped observatory and the starry night. 

Aman was not sure how to answer him, he let out the next words, they were stilted “Are you calling me a hypocrite?”

“Yes.” whispered Kartik, there were tears in his eyes as he spoke. “And it is disheartening because I thought you were a better man than that.”

Without another word Kartik rose and left. Aman sat with Gabru at his lap, a pain in chest he did not know what to do with and the secret filled stars glaring down on him. 

_ I have killed him  _ he told the stars.  _ But it has killed me just the same. _

~~~

Kartik did not remember the journey back to the room he shared with Aman. He had been blinded by the tears that had formed in his eyes as soon as he left the observatory tower. He was glad that Aman had not seen them, seen him as he was now.

He sat on the edge of the bed, their bed. He had known, he had always known that Aman did not love him. That even if he cared for him he would put all those emotions aside. Even if he did love him, he would never be ready to admit to it. He knew Aman to be focused and disciplined. He would not allow emotion to cloud his goal. 

Yet there had always been a sliver of hope. In his smile, in his eyes, in his voice.

_ Your feelings mean nothing to me. Nothing. _

Aman would not kill him with his sword Kartik knew. He had already killed him with those words. He would be a dead man living by the time Aman drove the blade into his heart.

His hopes had been false. Hollow. He was a fool to think Aman might reciprocate. Though that was not why he wept now. He wept for Aman. It would always be for Aman. Why could Aman not let go of his convoluted sense of honour and lie? Did he not understand the risk to his own person, the risk to the nations? Or did he not care?

Kartik could hear footsteps approaching the door quickly he positioned him himself to look as if he were asleep. 

It was here Kartik realised that he had not taken his sleeping draught. But getting up now, meant facing Aman, speaking with him. He was not sure he had the strength to do that.

“Kartik?” came Aman’s voice. 

Kartik did not answer him. Hoping he would not look closer and see that he in fact was not asleep. For a moment it seemed Aman stood watching him. Slowly, he heard him sigh, but he sigh was not one of relief. It was not as if a weight had lifted from his shoulder but had rather had sunken down on them.

Kartik heard his footsteps again walking towards him. He briefly wondered if Aman would try to wake him up. 

Then softly he felt a thin cotton blanket cover his body. For a moment Aman’s fingers lingered in his hair before they went away. Kartik felt their absence more keenly than he had felt anything else. There was some more movement around the room before, finally, Kartik felt Aman’s weight on the other side of their bed. It had by now become familiar a constant. He wondered if his own weight had become familiar to Aman.

There was complete silence from the other end. Kartik opened his eyes slightly to Aman had his back to him. He had though him asleep, but then he heard a soft stifled sob and a sniffle. They were barely a whisper in the quiet of the night. But it was there. Kartik had heard it. He wanted to do nothing more than to reach out and hold him, let him weep in his arms. 

_ Tonight may have killed me _ Kartik realised  _ But it killed him just the same _ .

But another part of him, the part of him that was still angry, would not let him. 

_ Let him weep.  _ It whispered.  _ Let him tear himself apart. He will take your life in seven days let it destroy him.  _

He went to sleep with the knowledge that perhaps Mandhav was right. Perhaps deep down he was not as good as he thought himself to be. 

They did not hold hands this night as they did on other nights. How could they after all that was said and done? There was a dread, dread for the nightmares that were sure to come and the lack of comfort in their wake. 

Sleep came as it always did but his fears seeped into his dreams. It was not like his usual dreams, the ones with the wars, the ones with his father. In this dream, he was in the throne room sitting beside Aman. There was no one else in sight. 

Two thrones two kings. The white walls of Shafaq were greying, crumbling around them. 

Kartik turned Aman. 

The other king was sitting as still as stone, staring ahead. He did not seem to have noticed Kartik at all.

Kartik studied him. There seemed to be something unfocused about his eyes. As if he could see nothing before him. There was no movement save for the clenching of his fists. It was here that Kartik noticed there was blood on Aman’a hands. It seeped through his fingers, down the armrests of the throne, in thin but steady rivulets of blood, forming small pools on the floor. 

They did not seem to stop.

“Aman?” Kartik questioned. 

The king did not answer him. He kept staring ahead. Before Kartik could talk to him however, question him. The doors of the throne room opened. The first person to come in was Devika, she was followed by the other advisors and the family. Every one of them wore the same expression. 

Steely rage.

Still, Aman seemed to notice nothing. 

They all stood side by side, their familiar loving faces twisted into something far darker. The seemed more like ghouls than the people Kartik had come to love. It was Devika walked up the steps of the dais and she stood face to face with the Aman. 

Where his eyes were rendered useless hers had become flame. 

“Why did you do it?” she asked, her voice was hoarse as if she had been weeping.

The only movement that emanated from Aman were the tears that ran down his cheeks. His beautiful, dark, useless eyes glittering with regret. But it did nothing to douse the flame in Devika’s eyes, or the rage in everyone else’s faces.

They started calling out, every one of them, each with vile accusations. Aman stood as still as ever, his eyes weeping tears his hands weeping blood.

Kartik tried to stop them, he tried to question them. But his voice was lost in the sea of blame. The ignored him. Almost as if he were not there, as if he were a ghost.

Devika raised a sword. Kartik was not sure how the sword appeared in her hands but he recognised it. It was his own. 

“You killed him.” she hissed. “And I will kill you.”

He knew he had to act. Instinctively he got off his throne put himself in front of Aman, between him and Devika. He would let himself take the sword. He would die for him. 

Devika did not seem to see him. She acted quickly. She thrust the sword through Kartik’s chest.

Instead of the searing pain, however, he felt nothing. The sword passed through him as if he were made of air. He heard a short sharp gasp behind him. The blood pooled beneath his feet. The ember in Devika’s eyes cooled, the fury spent. All he could see was despair.

He turned back to Aman, death glazing over his beloved king’s eyes.

Kartik woke with a gasp. The cold sweat on his body seemed to run backwards, his heartbeat racing so fast he was not sure. He checked to see if Aman was beside him. He was. Alive and breathing. 

The other dreams, the ones about his father and the wars, would leave him with severed nerves. It would leave him broken. It would shatter him like glass but he had long learned to arrange the shards into a mosaic. 

This dream, however, left him hollow, it had reached through him and gouged out everything that made him Kartik Singh. It left him feeling like a used melon rind. No sweetness remained. _ Nothing  _ remained. Nothing but fear and the shell of himself.

What he had told Aman was true. He was afraid for him after his death. He was afraid of what would happen to him and the kingdoms. And here his fear was manifested in his dreams. Somehow, the silent dream had terrified him more than the others. He knew then and there that he had to do everything in his power to ensure Aman lied about his. To ensure that no one would hurt him. 

His death would be for nought if Aman did not survive to look after the two nations.

Kartik sat in silence, drawing his knees to his chest, humming softly to himself. It would be a long while before he would able to sleep again.

“Kartik?” came Aman’s groggy voice.

Aman must have only just woken up, no doubt 

Kartik turned slightly to see that Amah had outstretched his hand, an offering of comfort. For a moment Kartik considered taking it. But in the end he did not. He remembered seeing Aman’s still body on the other side of the bed. Hearing his stifled sobs and doing nothing about it. How could he dare find comfort in Aman’s hand when had been too selfish to do the same for him?

Kartik pretended that he did not hear him. He pretended that he could not see his offer of comfort. He drew his knees closer to his chest and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

Songs:

During Stargazing:

[Yoon Shubnami](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAKp1hyeaFU) by Monty Sharma

[Rewrite the Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RI-HOQ27QEM) from The Greatest Show Man

[All of the Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HLfeIoyJ-s) by Ed Sheeran

[Sky Full of Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDonh28AY3I) by Cold Play

[ Taare Gin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pr-4GbR4DpQ) from Dil Bechara

[ Aaj Jaane Ki Zidd Na Karo ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGwHQYtvNRw)

During Confession:

[ Water Under the Bridge  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8djdhhFuxo) Adele

[ Cruel Summer ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ic8j13piAhQ) Taylor Swift

After Confession or General Vibes:

[ Stargazing  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HW6He6mD0Kk) by Kygo also check out Mehan's Edit

[FOOLS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfD96yRT8cs) by Troye Sivan

[Fools](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UolKQWoWyQY) \- Lauren Aquilina

[Smoke and Mirrors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDPnaTQF6Dw) \- IMagine Dragons

[My Tears Ricochet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWbDJFtHl3w) \- Taylor Swift

[Bad Liar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQAYb9ok4s0) \- Imagine Dragons

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO WHAT MEHAN AND I DUB DEPRESSION WEEK (well, week for the characters an month for you guys). I love how all the pain lined up with October. I mean let's be serious did you really fucking think I'd let guys off the hook for Whumptober?
> 
> Also yeah I'm not to blame actually it's Mehan. Depression week was only gonna be one scene, they made me extend it to five chapters. So like you know who to aim your knives at. (not me).


	44. Two Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the pain last chapter. This chapter is less painful but still painful. 
> 
> Anyway you guys know who to blame <3.

When one king curses the other

The nations are cursed with war

When they let their eyes weep

The nations won’t weep, they roar

\- Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

  
  


Sleep had not come easily but in the end, it _had_ come. Aman supposed he should be grateful for that much at least. When he woke he felt empty. When he woke he felt drained. His throat was sore from weeping, he felt feverish, nauseous, his nose runny, ill at ease. It felt like the oncomings of an illness. When he tried to move, searing pain shot through his temple. 

He was not surprised at the outcome, he had, after all, cried himself to sleep. 

No, that was not an accurate way of putting it. Sleep had come to him in short periods, brief flashes. Or at least that was how it had felt when compared to the time he had spent lying on his side, his heart heavy as if it were made of stone. He could almost believe that were so if it had not been for the pain, the slow bleeding of sadness that seeped through his body. 

Men with stone hearts do not have silent tears streaming down his cheeks. They do not try to control the sobs that threatened to burst from their chest. They do not try to silence the sniffles if it means they had to go without breath.

The problem was he felt too much. He always had.

He had not wanted to wake Kartik. He had not wanted him to hear. He had not wanted his words or his comfort. It would have done no good. It would have been selfish considering that Aman was sure he had hurt him beyond repair. 

The other side of the bed was empty when he woke. It was here that Aman knew that their lives would never go back to normal. Whatever normal had once meant for them. It was always Aman who rose early, watching the sunrise reflect on Kartik lashes. Watching as he slowly opened his eyes, teasing him for his grogginess. Never again and it was all his doing. 

_What have I done wrong? He said he loved me and I said I could not return those feelings. Surely, surely there is no sin in that._

_But there is sin in lying_ said a voice. _A sin in at least not acknowledging his last wish._

He did not want to war with himself so early in the morning. Perhaps, perhaps he could try to soften the blow he had so mercilessly laid on Kartik. 

Aman rose slightly turned to see that Kartik had already risen he was pulling on a soft blue sherwani. From this angle, Aman could see linen strips, bound around his injured shoulder. He held it awkwardly. It was here Aman realised Kartik probably went to sleep without administering the salves. 

Aman had not kept his promise to Qabid. He had not made sure that Kartik looked after himself. He wondered how long it had taken for Kartik to administer the salves and do the linen bandages. He was no healer, no physician after all. Aman wondered if Kartik had even done the whole thing right, he was wont to make mistakes especially if he was overly emotional about something.

Aman had no time to ask, however. As soon as Kartik had finished lacing his sherwani he made his way to the door. He took one glance back at Aman. Their eyes met briefly. Aman could see that they were red. 

Whether it was the result of a lack of sleep or weeping Aman was not sure. He would not have been surprised if it were both. Neither of them said anything. They only acknowledged the pain they had caused each other. Their silence spoke of a shift between them. 

Kartik simply walked out of the room. 

That, if Aman were to be honest with himself, that simple action hurt the most. Kartik always wished him a good morning, no matter his mood.

~~~

Unconsciously Kusum’s hand went to Rajini’s last letter. She had tucked it away into the waist-band of her lehenga. It had come only yesterday and already she knew it by heart, already she had memorised it each and every word. She knew her lover’s hand so well, every time her eyes swept over the little flourishes she could almost imagine her sitting down and writing them. She could imagine every little expression on her face. And it hurt. 

Rajini’s absence had only been for a month but it felt more like centuries. 

Each day she dreaded the new that Rakesh may have done something to harm her, or that he had said something to make Rajini suspect Kusum’s true identity. But Rajini’s letters came in frequent succession, and each of them were filled to the brim with love.

More often than not she hoped the hard labour would kill him before he did something. It was a terrible thought, but one she could not quite regret. If it ensured her happiness and the safety of the kingdoms, she would kill him herself. 

She was sitting beside Sunaina, breaking her fast with the rest of the family and the advisors as well as Qabid. Kartik had only just arrived and he had come alone. This Kusum thought was strange since he usually arrived with Aman.

His eyes were red with great large hollows under them. His smiles did not seem to quite reach his eyes as they once used to, neither did he speak unless he was spoken to.

It was only when Aman arrived, uncharacteristically half an hour late, that Kusum understood. Though he sat by Kartik’s side he did not meet his eye, nor did he speak to him.

_An argument_ , Kusum concluded, _a falling out. And a terrible one at that._

At alternate times during the next few minutes of the meal, Kusum could not help but note that Kartik seemed to be fighting back emotions, fighting back tears, sometimes he was unsuccessful and he would wipe them away hastily when he thought no one else was looking. Even Aman, usually excellent at hiding his tri=ue feelings, was pale and red-eyed. He ate only a little, playing around with the food on his plate.

_You have each other._ She wanted to tell them both. _You are not separated, as Rajini and I are. Is being together not enough? Why cloud the time that you have with poison?_

Devika who was sitting by Kusum’s other side watched the two of them carefully, Qabid, Nasireh and Keshav did the same. They looked as if they were trying to discern the problem with their eyes alone. 

The others tried to keep the conversation going as usual. They tried to act normal, tried _not_ to comment on the situation. But the truth was the conversation was empty without Kartik’s infectious enthusiasm and Aman’s sly remarks and their rift was slowly affecting them all.

In the end, was Chaman who was brave enough to address the two kings. 

“I know in Akhtar,” he said. “That a marriage is considered legal when the couple has lived together for six months. Do you have a sort of celebration then, at the end of the six months?”

Kartik looked up at Chaman from his untouched meal his voice was quiet, soft and raw. He must have wept at some point in the last few hours.

“Not a celebration,” he explained. “Well not a public one, there is usually an exchange of gifts, but it tends to be private, between the couple.”

Chaman smiled “Yours is in only six days is it not?”

Aman looked as if he was going to be sick. His careful constructed expression sloughing away to reveal despair so sharp, Kusum was not sure how he could sit upright. Kartik smiled, but the smile was one that would wilt easily at the slightest shift in mood. 

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Only six days.”

“I think I speak for the most of us when I say this,” said Chaman. “Though this marriage was unexpected. I for one am glad that we can call you family, our _damaad_.”

He used the Mahanite word for son-in-law. But it encompassed so much more. For Keshav, Rajini and Kusum he had become a brother.

For a moment Kartik seemed taken aback. As if he had only just come to realise how much he truly meant to them, and that he wished it were not so. His smile was still plastered on his face, but he had gone rigid, he had stiffened beneath it. He seemed to be controlling various emotions. He failed even at that.

“You grant me more love than I deserve, none the less I am glad too,” he finally managed out. As soon as he said this, he rose from the table quickly glancing at Aman. “I must apologise. I have to go. I-” he stopped speaking as if he could give them no viable explanation before heading towards the door

“You have not eaten,” Sunaina called out to him. 

Kartik paused at the entryway. His hands trembling at the handle. He did not look back at them. He did not speak for a while. He took a deep breath as if he were afraid he would not be able to speak without the tears creeping through his voice.

“I’m not hungry,” he answered with that he left the room.

It was only moments later that Aman also stood. 

There was a fire in his reddened eyes as they glittered with unshed tears. A ghoulish gleam in his haggard expression. He seemed as if he were in a fever. Kusum recognised the look. The sickening frightening look that would overcome him on some mornings before he had married Kartik. When vengeance had been the only thing in his mind.

He would spend hours in the training yard. Sometimes Kusum would go and visit him there when her plan with Rakesh had still been to seduce him into marriage. He had been fury, rage and discipline itself. He had been merciless. It had scared Kusum then, it scared her more now. For, this time it was not anger, but something far more hollow. Empty. The gleam looked more like a fire burning inside an empty corpse.

“Keshav, cancel all plans for today. Do what you need to do to rearrange everything. Let…” he paused as if it hurt to say. “Let Kartik know as well.”

No one asked why he could not tell his husband himself. It was clear they were not on speaking terms. He too left the room. From the way he touched the hilt of the sword at his waist Kusum knew he had fallen back into his old habit. He was headed towards the training yard.

The meal went on in silence. No one attempted to liven the mood. It was almost as if their happiness depended on the two kings. Kusum had never thought about it before but it made sense now. The prosperity of the two nations depended on the prosperity of their marriage. It was not only going to tearing this close-knit circle, this family apart. It would tear apart the two countries, ripping every citizen down to their bloodied core. 

Slowly one by one they finished their meals and left the room, leaving only Sunaina and Kusum.

A funny thought occurred to her then. Though she was miles apart of Rajini she had been closer to her at that moment, her lover’s letter pressed against her waist than Kartik and Aman had been sitting right next to each other. The thought hurt to admit even to herself. 

She turned to Sunaina hoping the other woman would offer some sort of comfort.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked.

Sunaina shook her head. “Not truly. They have fought that is for certain. It happens in all relationships after a time.”

Kusum tried to imagine have such an altercation with Rajini. Even thinking about it made her want to cry. 

“Surely not this horrific.”

Sunaina smiled “They are inevitable. No relationship is free from trouble.”

She thought about Rakesh then. How it had turned from sweet to bitter in the course of the last few years. She did not like thinking of altercations as normal. Not in the new life, the one she was to build herself here with her new family.

“Can we do something to help them?” asked Kusum.

“If Aman can navigate his vengeance and love Kartik then they can get through this together. It is best not to interfere”.

~~~

At first, Keshav had been annoyed when Aman had called off the court. He would be lying to himself if he said he was not seething. But as he worked with Devika, sorting through the events of the day, rearranging their schedules, sending messengers and apologies to various people, he could not help but recall Aman’s face.

It had been void, vacant. There had not even been the anger, rage and vengeance that had followed him in his youth. There was nothing.

That had scared Keshav the most.

A part of him, the constant aching part of him wished Jaimini was here. She would know what to do, what to say. She had been one of the only people who seemed to understand Aman. The only one who had managed to get him out of his shell, if only slightly. 

Ever since they had found the books Keshav realised he missed her now more than ever. She should have been here with him celebrating, going through the books, yelling at him in excitement every time she found something new. She should have been here to witness Kartik and Aman’s marriage, to be exultant, to tease Aman, and watch on with pride as little by little he softened. 

He tried not to let these thoughts cloud his mind too much. He knew she would not want that. She had made him promise, at her death bed, that he would live on.

_You will do great things, my love,_ she had whispered as he held her hand. _Brilliant, beautiful, amazing things. And you need to be here to do all that. Promise me you will remain. That you will live._

He had promised, through tears, he had promised with all his heart. He would honour that promise. 

He sat in the library now going through some of the new material from today’s haul. He had been thinking of her when had found something of interest. Something that may help Kartik with his epic. It was a letter sent to Faheema, from Faneel, after they had left Shafaq for Eskabad. One line struck him. 

_For all Jahan had done I am glad he had that woman executed at least. She was a demon masquerading in seemingly pious skin. His only good act in the sea of madness._

On further inspection of the various letters Faneel had sent while still is Eskabad before the Great Burnings, Keshav learned that this woman was in fact named Khashia. There was not much on her other than she had once possibly been the King’s mistress, she had sought to reform many of the customs of Akhtar. She had been a religious fanatic and had detested Taharin and slowly she had poisoned Jahan’s mind against his daughter until of course, she got what she wanted. Taharin’s death.

There seemed to be however no record of her in the annals when Keshav had read through them in Khorshid. She was an important figure and he did not think the historians would be so careless to forget her.

Since Parvaaz was in Kashatr he decided to find Kartik. He was not sure where he was. He had been too caught up in arranging everything initially to send a message to Kartik himself. So he had sent a messenger in his stead. He had not seen Kartik the whole day. No one had. He had simply disappeared. 

Keshav s first thought was to ask Aman where he was. But that would not be possible, Aman would have been too focused on his training to know. Even if he was not, they were not on speaking terms. It would not matter.

Keshav picked up the letters. He had nothing else to do for the rest of the evening and he knew Devika would be worried if Kartik did not come back soon. His initial thought had been to search the Lake of Poets, where he usually went to write. Keshav had at first thought it an unlikely option, considering the other man had almost been in tears when he had seen him at breakfast. Besides he spent his _evenings_ by the lake, not his early afternoons.

Since he was nowhere in the palace Keshav decided to check the lake first anyway.

When he arrived the birds sang in the summer air, the breeze was warm and wicked. Again here he was reminded of Jaimini. Summer had been her favourite season. They would have married last summer.

Kartik sat his back against a tree, his shoulder held awkwardly. The papers of his poem scattered before him, Gabru dozing peacefully at his side. He seemed strangely fervent but also withdrawn. A mirror of Aman’s own harrowing emptiness. He wrote as if he were running out of time. He seemed so focused on his work, Keshav had half a mind to turn back but Kartik looked up and smiled.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he remarked. “I received your message, is Aman...is he well?”

Keshav was not sure how to answer him. “He is training.”

The words seemed to weigh down on Kartik he looked down at his papers, Keshav found it a good opportunity as any to tell Kartik the reason why he was here.

“I found a few more things, letters between Faneel and Faheema. They speak of a woman named Khashia.”

“Khashia?” asked Kartik.

Keshav handed him the papers. There was an old liveliness in Kartik’s grin at that moment that put Keshav slightly at ease. He took them eagerly skimming through them. Keshav took a seat by his side and pointed out the passages that referenced her.

“I never found her names in the annals,” said Keshav. “There were a few names and events blacked out when I read them on our stay in Khorshid. I always assumed that they were Mahanite. Could she be one of them?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you think there was a reason why her name was taken out?”

“I think Jahan could not live with what he did to Taharin. I think he wanted to pass the blame of his daughter’s death, a death that would haunt him for the rest of his life, on this woman. He had forgotten the cruelty was of his own free will.”

“But by erasing her name from record had painted him more the villain.”

“That’s only because we knew differently,” Kartik reminded him. “We had access to a few journals and records before anyone else that told some of the truth. Most of Mahan still thinks Aayush was raped and tortured by Taharin before she killed him. Most of Akhtar Akhtar still thinks Aayush had raped and killed Taharin. They needed reasons to justify war. By killing Khashia he was able to kill the last person who knew otherwise, and he would have felt somewhat absolved of his guilt over his daughter’s death.”

“I’m glad he is dead.”

Kartik laughed. “I agree.” he expression then turned serious, he looked Keshav in the eye. “Thank you for this, gods know what I would do without you? What anyone would have done without you?”

“Quite a lot actually,” said Keshav.

Kartik rolled his eyes it seemed for a moment he had forgotten about the sadness that seemed to inflict him. “You underrate yourself. None of this would have been possible without you. You found the books that were thought were long burned. History cannot thank you enough.”

The praise warmed Keshav but he also felt a loss. Jaimini should be here celebrating with him. It had been her dream too, to discover these books. He turned his attention to the lake.

“They all died protecting those books, the poets the scholars,” said Keshav. “I am glad I could honour them.”

“They say this is where all the poets came to die, a part of me believes they are here with us now but somehow the lake does not feel haunted.”

“No,” agreed Keshav. “It feels like they are with us, watching over us. It’s like the Godsblade.”

“The Godsblade?” questioned Kartik. 

Keshav was not sure how much Aman might have told him but he felt a sense of safety being with Kartik. Somehow he knew Kartik would understand.

“Her name was Jaimini,” he explained. “She was the woman I were to wed, last summer in fact. But a plague had broken out in Chandan. She only had a rudimentary knowledge of healing.You see she had started it so she could teach Aman, he had stopped studying after our head physician died and the pressures of kingship got far too much. She had volunteered to help the healers. She eventually succumbed to the disease.”

“She sounds brave,” said Kartik. “And kind.”

“She was all that but she was also brilliant and smart. She could memorise whole books in just one sitting.” Keshav found himself smiling remembering all the times he would tease her about it. “She was also resolute, determined and disciplined. I think that was why she was the only people who understood Aman, who could bring him out of his shell. Until you.”

When Kartik’s features resumed their heavy sadness, Keshav wished he had not mentioned his relationship with Aman. 

“Aman mentioned her,” Kartik said softly. “He did not tell me much but from what you both say I wish I had known her.”

“She would have liked you,” said Keshav. “She would have liked you a lot.”

Kartik placed a hand to his heart and looked up towards the heavens. Keshav recognised it as an Akhtari salute. The very one Parvaaz had done all those months ago in

“To stars of heaven, to the friend I have never met, know you were loved.” Kartik smiled. “You must miss her.”

“Everyday,” confirmed Keshav. “Aman and I spent hours, days on end weeping together. You know he never wept when his father died. But when Jaimini died…”

He remembered Aman curled up beside him, the tears trickling down his face even as he tried to sleep. 

“I’m sorry I speak too much,” Keshav said quickly.

“No not at all,” said Kartik. “I am glad, honoured you felt like you could share this with me. Truly. It feels like I have known her my whole life.” he turned Keshav. “Do you think it is possible to miss someone you never met? Because I miss her.”

Keshav could feel the tears burn in his eyes at Kartik’s words. He hastened to wipe them away only to find Kartik leaning forward to wipe them himself. 

“She loved the Godsblade,” he told Kartik, the words would not coming out of his mouth. With every word, his heart felt lighter. “She loved the water, I used to think her soul was in the river. But now I think… You see we’ve always wanted to come here together to honour the poets that died. Sometimes I like to think her soul is with them sitting on these banks debating the finer points philosophy.”

“You must come here often then,” said Kartik. 

Keshav shook his head. “I always thought that it might disturb your writing. You want to complete it in six days do you not?”

“You need never to have worried about that. I am nearly done you would not disturb me the slightest,” said Kartik placing an arm around his shoulder and drew him into a half embrace. “The lake means something to you and Jaimini. Do not let my presence overshadow that and if it does I can always write somewhere else. Besides, you’re my brother now are you not? It would be nice to have more company.”

~~~

_I wish I had more time._

The phrase had become a frequent fixture in Kartik’s mind. He had only known Keshav for six months and he wished that he had a lifetime with him too, as the brother he never had. As they walked back up to the palace Kartik could almost imagine it, spending more evenings together talking books, poems and history with him.

He was touched beyond words when Keshav had decided to trust him with the memory of Jaimini. He had meant it when he said he had missed her. If he could find one comfort in his death it was the fact that the afterlife at least would be interesting with her there.

It was sundown when they arrived at the palace. Kartik felt lighter than he had been when he left it. He had tried not to think of his argument with Aman. He tried and failed, it was a constant in his mind. It bled into everything he did. 

He had, along with forgetting his sleeping draught, also forgotten about his shoulder. He had not slept that night and the lack of rest combined with the lack of care had proven harmful to his shoulder. In truth, if he were to look at it objectively, the pain was not overtly terrible. He could live with it. It was the ache that encroached his heart that made it worse. 

He could still hear Aman’s stifled sobs. Their sound would never leave him. He would rue withholding comfort even after he died. It would follow him to the afterlife.

As much as he wanted to rush up to Aman embrace him and apologise there was no hope of making amends. There was no point. In six days he would be dead. A corpse. And corpses do not feel pain. All he had to do was make sure no one would hurt Aman when he killed him. He had to make sure that Aman would continue to live on. He had to make Aman promise to keep it a secret somehow. 

As soon as Keshav and Kartik passed into the halls Nasireh greeted them with, a stern expression on their face. Something was troubling them. Kartik had not seen this expression since three years ago when he himself had overdosed on the opium. A certain fear seemed to rise in his chest. What had happened?

“What is wrong?” Kartik managed out. 

“It’s Aman,” they said. 

Kartik felt his heart sink at the mention of Aman’s name. He wanted to run, to find Aman to make sure he was alright. A thousand scenarios ran through his head and each as horrifying as the other. He could not move. He could not speak. He could do nothing. It was almost as if he had forgotten to breathe.

“What happened to Aman?” asked Keshav the panic had risen in his voice too.

“He was in the training yard,” started Nasireh. 

“He does that when he’s pissed,” supplied Keshav.

“He was fucking merciless, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so relentless,” said Nasireh. “He would not stop. I wish I had just knocked him down or something instead of going along with the sparring. He ended up vomiting. Not that he brought up much, I don’t think he’s eaten the whole day.” Nasireh looked into Kartik’s eyes, they were almost accusing. “I was so terrified, he was so pale...and...shaking and sobbing...I didn’t know what to do.”

_My fault._ The old whisper came back. Though he knew he was not truly to blame. He felt partially responsible. He was not sure how to answer Nasireh and their accusing eyes. 

Keshav luckily had taken up to speaking “Where is he now?”

“In Qabid’s quarters being treated, Devi and the others are with him.”

“I need to go see him.”

Without another word Keshav left. Kartik almost followed him. He almost ran after him. The gods only knew how much he wanted to be there with Aman. Hold him, feel his pulse. But he stopped. He dared not. Aman would not want him there. He was sure of it. His presence would only make matters worse.

Kartik turned back to Nasireh. When he met their eyes he looked down. Why did Nasireh always make him feel like a child?

“I have matters to attend to,” Kartik said. “Let me know when he is better.’

“Court is cancelled. You should go him see for yourself,” Nasireh’s voice was steel, their hazel eyes lined with kajal had narrowed. “If I did not know any better I would call this cruelty. What happened between you two?” 

“Nothing,”

“It does not seem like nothing.”  
  


Kartik looked away from Nasireh’s disconcerting hazel eyes down to the floor. “We had an argument” he admitted. “The usual.”

“I have seen your usual arguments,” said Nasireh firmly. “They are entertaining at best, annoying at worst. But they never end with him literally vomiting his guts out and you disappearing for hours on end. Do you know how worried Devi is?”

“It’ll blow over,” Kartik assured them. That much at least was true. Only six more days and it would all be over.

He looked up at Nasireh. He saw the love in their eyes. The concern. All for Aman. Aman who was their king. Aman was their friend. If there was anyone he could trust with Aman’s safety, anyone who would protect him it was Nasireh.

“I need you to promise me something Nasireh.”

They pulled up short at his tone. Kartik was not sure of the last time he had spoken to Nasireh like this. With sheer sincerity and naught else.

“Anything,” they whispered.

“If something ever happens to me you have to swear you will look after Aman. You have to make sure no harm will come to him.” he touched the dragonfly earring pinned at Nasireh’s chest, the one Aman had given them during the Bahaduri. “You are his champion and you will honour that to your dying day. Promise me.”

He realised he himself was weeping. His voice his words had come out impassioned, raw and jagged. His emotions laid out bare. Nasireh seemed startled by this sudden outburst. But they nodded their head resolutely.

“I promise.”

* * *

Songs:

[Nazm Nazm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JihNlsapeQw) from Bareilly ki Barfi for Kusum and Rajini

[One Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BzpGCYcNSU) by James Arthur for angst

[18](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRpzJabYlQQ) by One Direction for Keshav and Jaimini


	45. Forgiveness and a Dark Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's midgnight. This probably had a lot of mistakes. But I don't have time to do shit tomoz. So take it as it is. (Yes Mehan you can point out all the mistakes later).
> 
> Thanks to Dhyan for galaxy braining the music thing with me on Twitter DMs. Also thank you Mehan for spicing up the angst. 
> 
> I wasn my hands clean of the angst. I will not be held accountable. Blame these two instead.

Name me one road on this earth

That has ever treaded smooth

Name me one love in this world

That hid not from the truth

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

When Aman awoke, it was well past sunrise. The sunlight streamed through the window in an unfamiliar way. The bed beneath him also felt different. He turned groggily to observe his surroundings and was startled to see Kartik by his side, closing his box of poems. He seemed sad, bereft, almost as if life had been sucked out of him. A breathing unsmiling corpse.

_My fault._ Aman thought bitterly. _His smiles are gone because of me. I will have killed him twice over when all this is over and done with._

As soon as Kartik closed his box he glanced back at him and in his expression, Aman saw concern. Concern that he did not deserve. 

The other king shifted slightly when he realised Aman was awake, averting his eyes. He looked uncomfortable, he looked as if he were imprisoned, as if he were only here out of obligation. As if he would rather be anywhere in the room but here. He looked guilty too as if he had been caught in the act of doing something reckless. 

Aman was not sure how to feel about this strange mixture of emotions from the other king. He did not even want to start deciphering his own treacherous godforsaken feelings. All he knew was that he hated himself. The emotion was old and familiar, a habit, a well-worn shoe. Easy to slip into.

There was no one else in the room. It was not even _their_ room, it was Qabid’s quarters. 

Before Kartik, training had been the only way he had been able to focus his mind, to stave off the war within him. It had never ended like this. He was a fool to have trained so hard. To have been so reckless with his body. He knew that now. 

Aman had a vague fevered memory of retching on the sands of the training arena, Nasireh carrying him here. He remembered being cared for. He remembered Devika’s voice, his mother’s hand. He remembered everyone. Everyone except Kartik. 

Had the other king his husband, been here when he was asleep? Why had he not come to see him earlier? Surely he could not have hurt Kartik so much that he would neglect to even ask after his health. 

Even now, whether it was out of sheer stubbornness or fear Kartik did not ask how he was faring. Instead, he poured a glass of water and handed it to Aman. 

“Qabid said you needed clear liquids.”

“What are you doing here?” Aman managed out. It came out harsher than he had wanted it to.

Kartik stared at him as if he were surprised he had spoken at all. But the harshness of Aman’s tone seemed to harden the shock in his features to something more sinister. Aman wished he had not spoken.

“In truth, Nasireh pushed me in here,” he explained diffidently. “They suggested we make amends.”

Kartik’s eyes met his cautiously. Aman found he could not look at them for long. It was like looking directly at the sun. Which was strange. He had always likened his husband's _smile_ to the sun not his eyes. 

He nodded and kept drinking his water, letting the cool liquid settle his nerves. 

“Besides, you were sick,” continued Kartik as a way of explanation. “It would not look good if I did not come to see my husband when he is ill.”

_Husband._ The word chafed. It pierced. It wounded. 

There was an old adage in Mahan. When your words are doomed to fail it is best to remain silent. So that was what Aman did. He merely nodded biting back the tears that had been ushered forth by Kartik’s words. If Kartik had loved him once, he surely did not love him now. His words were too harsh for those of a lover.

Was it all a matter of reputation to Kartik now? Had Aman hurt him so much that he had decided to secure his warmth and love behind walls so high that no one could climb them. 

_That’s the true tragedy_ Aman thought himself _the way his fire perished before he could._

Aman found himself slipping into the old self-hatred more readily. He would have done anything, anything to make amends. But that would be cruel. That would give him hope where there was none.

“Yes,” Aman whispered bitterly. “It’s all about _appearances_.”

“This sham of a marriage, was built on appearances there is no need for bitterness.” Kartik was scowling now. “I only say this so that the others would not suspect. We both knew how this would end, we knew it before it even started/”

It was clear now. Kartik was not talking to Aman now because he cared. He had not even asked for his health. All this, the conversation about making amends, being amiable, did not stem from Kartik caring about Aman as a person. No. It came from his stupid sense of altruism. 

The supposed love that Kartik had nurtured for the last six months had curdled into hate. Aman supposed it was a talent of his, turning the most beautiful things into something monstrous. 

“Trust me,” said Aman. “I am not bitter. I don’t care about your conversation or company. Truly. I do not miss it. I never will.”

His words came out stilted, childish and stubborn. Kartik regarded him curiously for a minute. As if he knew he was lying.

Aman had hated the silence that had fallen between them but he wished it did not have to be broken like this. 

“At least my death will be easy on one person,” he said it in the morbid amused way that Aman hated.

“If you are here to convince me that I should lie to the others I do not want to have this conversation”

“No, I realise you are too far gone in your honour for that.” Kartik rose. “You will be at dinner will you not?”

Aman turned away “Yes.”

Kartik stood as if pondering what to say “I will see you then.”

No words of kindness. Nothing. Perhaps Aman was being selfish, for expecting Kartik to still treat him with kindness after all that was said and done. But he could not deny that his heart, a heart he wished were made of steel or stone rather than flesh, was tearing itself apart. 

_No. It is what I deserve. Let it be torn apart. Let it be penance for the blood that will be on my hands._

As Aman lay in bed, in Kartik's wake he heard muffled conversation outside the door. Qabid must have returned. Aman could not make out what they were saying, they talked far too low for that. No doubt Qabid was asking after the state of affairs between them When the conversation finally ceased Qabid came in, various scrolls in hand. He smiled at Aman as he walked in as if he were glad to see him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. 

“Better,” said Aman. Physically at least that was true, he did not feel as if his stomach was rapidly churning like the waters of a winter storm.

“You certainly look healthier,” Qabid mutters eyeing him once over. “Do you have any idea how the sickness may have come about?”

Aman remembered it then training with Nasireh in the sands of the arena. Ever since he was eleven years old he would train, imagining Kartik before him. His vengeance manifested before him. It would help him focus on the goal at hand. When he trained with Nasireh he had tried to do the same. Conjuring an image of Kartik before him, hoping that it would help him focus on the goal at hand once again. Hoping that going back to his old habits. Hoping ease the pain of Kartik’s passing, hoping it simplify things. 

But that was not the case. It never was.

When he had tried to imagine Kartik before him he no longer him as he had once done for the past years, sneering, taunting, bright eye. No. The Kartik that had manifested before him was as he had first seen him, as he had first truly seen him. The Kartik that had knelt praying that night in the temple under the lamplight, under Okhine’s gaze where, like Noor, he had wept tears of flame.

_“Had I known who you were I would have killed you,” Aman had once said to Kartik, the second time they had met.“Tears or no.”_

_“No, you would not have.” Kartik had replied._

Even then it seemed Kartik knew him in ways no other man could for he had been right. The thought of killing him, helpless, weeping and without hope, praying, was repulsive to Aman. Nauseating, abhorrent. It had felt like an affront, a violation of the most grotesque kind. A desecration of all things sacred. 

While training his body had reacted violently to the disgust. He sword had trembled in his hands. The sweat on his fevered body turning cold in an instant. His vision had blurred, his stomach lurched. He had felt as if all his innards had been brutally exiled from his body. The pain had been unbearable.

But he could not tell Qabid that.

“A combination of things I think,” said Aman. “ I did not eat much. I trained to the point of exhaustion. Kartik and I...” he looked up at Qabid he did not know what to say.

Qabid, as perceptive as ever seemed to pick up on words unsaid.

“Forgive me for asking,” said Qabid. “But is everything well between you?”

They would make a perfect pair, Aman realised, after Kartik’s death, a fatherless son and a father without a son. It was a sinister thought. But he could deny the poetry in it. 

Qabid’s fatherly concern for Kartik it seemed was now slowly extending itself to Aman himself. He wondered what the old man would say or do if he knew, when he knew. Yet he had no right to expect kindness from him. But he could not imagine Qabid hating anyone. 

“Would you ever forgive someone who took away the person you loved?” 

Aman was not sure what made him ask the question. Perhaps it was an innate craving for reassurance. For one person, at least, to say that he would not be hated. No doubt Qabid would think he was referring to Shankar, and in a roundabout way, maybe he was. 

Qaabid considered him for a moment, considered his question before saying “Have you ever seen a wound fester?” 

Aman nodded, confused, unsure of where the conversation was heading.

“You would know then what causes a wound to fester.”

“It happens when it is not looked after.”

“Time, Aman, I have found, is a strange thing,” Qabid took a seat on the chair Kartik had been sitting on. “You do not feel it yet, you are young and you have much life to live. But I find time heals most wounds. Yes, it will leave behind scars, change you in ways that are irreversible. But either wounds will heal and you learn to live with them or you can succumb to them. The choice is yours. If you wish them to heal you must treat them with care, learn what you need to do to soothe the pains and aches. You need to try and prevent the wound from reopening. Treat it with kindness more than anything..”

“So you would forgive them if they killed someone you love?”

“Yes, it will take time but I would forgive them in the end.”

“Why would you? They took someone from you, someone you loved.”

“Because,” said Qabid. “If I deny them this small mercy, if I deny them kindness. I will not longer be myself. I will not longer be human.”

_What does that say about me_ wondered Aman _That I cannot do the same for Kartik that I cannot be merciful._

The next words escaped Aman's lips as soon as they had manifested in his thoughts “Forgive me.”

_Coward_ . His mind hissed. _Asking for forgiveness when you cannot bring yourself to do the same._

Qabid seemed startled at first but he eventually placed a hand on Aman’s cheek it reminded Aman so much of his own father that he almost wept

“And what have you done" asked Qabid. "That warrants my forgiveness?”

_Not something I have done_ thought Aman. _Something I am yet to do._

“I have troubled you, worried you. I should have been able to look after myself,” said Aman hoping the explanation would suffice. “I should _not_ have to burden you like this. I am your apprentice, I should know these things, I have disgraced your teachings.”

Qabid had a strange look on his face, he seemed to have been taken aback by something Aman had said. He looked as if he were reliving a moment, a memory. He leaned forward with a newfound familiarity and embraced him.

It only took a few moments before Aman found himself sobbing silently into Qabid grey robes. 

“You can never disgrace me,” the physician said firmly. “Never. Neither you nor Kartik.” he tightened his hold on Aman. “Just because you know how to heal a body does not mean I expect you to act as your own physician. There are some things we have no control over, some things that we cannot heal for ourselves. Do not be so harsh on yourself, you need to trust others to look after you from time to time." he paused, Aman could not tell but he supposed the old man smiled. "For one let me make you some ginger tea, that should help settle the nausea.”

All Aman could do in response was embrace him, his mind whispering _forgive me, forgive me, forgive me._

~~~

Kartik had finally finished his poem, his epic, as he sat by Aman’s side unable to look at Aman’s wretched visage, wrecked by illness, an illness that he had caused.

Kartik was no physician but he knew enough about crying oneself to sleep, enough about not eating or drinking properly to know that this was not so much born from physical deficiencies but rather emotional anguish. So to stave off the encroaching guilt, he had brought his box of poems by Aman’s side. And by candlelight, by moonlight, he had written the tragic tale of Aayush and Taharin. He wrote as he never wrote before.

When he wrote he was reminded of a myth in Akhtar about a spirit in a lamp. A man, a shepherd, had found the lamp one day as he was searching for a stray lamb. He, seeing that the lamp was stained had picked it up and rubbed it. From it had emerged a spirit, as blue as a spring sky. _Your every wish_ he had told the shepherd. _Is my command._

There was however one condition for the spirit. If the shepherd neglected to give him work, the spirit would consume him. Of course in the end the shepherd had thought of some clever way for the spirit to occupy himself for eternity. But Kartik could not do the same. 

He could not supply his own spirit with countless work, countless writing. It had all come to an end as all things did. He had written his last lines, they were Faneel’s own words etched on the entrance that lead to the lost books.

_Their sacrifices will become out warcry._

When he had finished them he had sat back. A realisation sinking upon him. He had nothing else to keep the darkness, the anger, the guilt, at bay and soon he would be consumed, devoured. He would be left empty and aimless.

But not yet. He still had one more thing to do before he could wipe his hands clean of the ink. One more task. 

That task came before him in the form of Chaman Tripathi. They were sitting together at the feasting table for yet again another family meal. Kartik had been the first to arrive. He had been hoping to talk to Chaman alone. His hopes had been granted.

“How are you faring?” asked Chaman as he sat down on the table. 

In truth Kartik was faring terribly. His recent conversation with Aman had left him feeling hollower. 

_I don’t care about your conversation or company. Truly. I do not miss it. I never will._ Aman had said. And there were moments where Kartik believed them to be true. 

But he could not tell Chaman that. So he smiled and said:

“Well, I am well.”

“And Aman?” the question was said cautiously as if it were a fragile one. Kartik knew he was not merely asking after Aman’s health.

“He is well too. We have spoken.” It was in a way the truth. “He should be able to join us for a meal.”

The relief in Chaman’s face was palpable. “I am glad.”

Kartik fingered the box of poetry that he held in his lap. The reason why he had come early. 

“Uncle,” he hated the familiarity of the word, hated the way Chaman smiled at the sound. All of this would be easier if everybody had hated him. “I need to speak to you of something.”

“Anything,”

Kartik took a deep breath and drew the box from his lap and proffered it to Chaman. It was his life’s work. His last tether to this world. His last flame of life. His legacy. He hoped that it was enough.

“I want to give this to you,” he said. “To go over it, to change anything. And in a situation where I am no longer...when I am unable to write I want you to continue it, if any new information is uncovered and I am no longer there...”

“Kartik I…” he looked up and smiled. “You will most likely have to continue _my_ epic, the one I am writing for you both. If the gods are good, your reign will be long and prosperous and continue well after my death.” Chaman’s smile grew wider. “Gods it is going to take me long to complete it. No doubt you and Aman will complete many great feats in the years to come.”

_Not me_ thought Kartik _Only Aman. I will be a footnote in his story, his epic. His first husband who died only six months into the marriage. A small tragic point in his life. Nothing more. But he, he will go on to be a great king. The best. The king that gave us hope. If only he would listen to me. If only he has the sense to lie._

“I am sure you will outlive us all,” said Kartik. “Please take it from me.”

Chaman took Aayush and Taharin’s tale. He held it as if it were something sacred. “I will return it to you in five days. Devika had told me you had wanted it completed before the six month anniversary of your marriage so you could gift it to Aman.”

Kartik had forgotten he had said that. But he nodded in assent anyway. 

“I meant it” continued Chaman. “When I said that I am glad you are our family. And you cannot know my happiness at the thought another addition to our family.”

He smiled at Chaman “I have always wanted to be a father.”

A child. He had always wanted a child. His child. But it would be a child Kartik would never have the opportunity to hold, to love, to laugh with. A child he could never teach how to write, a child he could could never teach to ride a horse or hold a sword. That was the most painful part of his death. He will never have the opportunity to raise a child of his own, it had been one of his biggest dreams.

Yet what did it matter. His people were safe were they not? If sacrificing his life as well as his dreams ensured that, Kartik was willing to give them both readily.

“I could never be more proud of you or Aman.” said Chaman. “In truth, you do not seem like the boy who sent us back a bloodied banner.”

Bloodied banner? Kartik did not recall sending Mahan a bloodied banner or receiving one. He had to admit, though he had written the poem in Balkari, a mixture of Akhtari and Mahanite, Mahanite poetry was still not something he was well versed in. It might for all he knew ‘sending a bloodied banner’ been a poetic way of saying the destruction and bloodshed that he had brought through warfare, through killing Shankar.

Before he could ask Chaman what exactly he meant the door opened to reveal Sunaina and Champa. They were followed shortly by Devika, Kusum, Nasireh and Keshav. Each of them greeted each and though had been to see Aman at various time during the day yet they still seemed to ask Kartik about him. 

He knew what they were trying to do. They were trying to see if he had made peace with his husband. He answered them as truthfully and as amiably as he could, replying that Aman shoul be able to join them for a meal.

Thankfull Aman did arrive. ten minutes late, along with Qabid. He was pale but undeniably healthier than had been the night Kartik had stayed with him, helping nurse his fever. Aman stood awkwardly in the middle of the doorway. Unable to meet anyone’s eyes, Kartik’s particularly. 

It was Keshav who moved first, rushing towards his younger cousin embracing him forcefully. 

Aman seemed startled as first. The shock coursed through him steadily, like the slow trickle of water down the panes of a window. He stood, his arms hanging limply by his side. Slowly however he seemed to be regaining a sense of awareness. He embraced Keshav back, matching his force. As he did so he looked up and met Kartik’s eyes. Kartik found he could not move.

The others did, however. They all stood and embraced Aman, with their arms with their words. And yet still the other king did not seem at ease. His beautiful brown eyes were still on Kartik. Before he had been unable to meet his eyes, now it seemed that he could not take his eyes away. It was as if he were in a trance.

The others had paused, watching waiting for Kartik to approach Aman. Waiting to see whether to two had truly made peace. So Kartik rose from his seat. It had been his idea after all to at least pretend at amiability. He walked forward and held out his hands to Aman. It was only when Aman readily clutched his hands readil that realised they had both been trembling. He smiled, hoping somehow it would relieve the tension from Aman’s features. The other king leaned into him. His whole body seemed to be begging him for support. And Kartik could not help but give it unconditionally.

It felt illicit, dangerous, almost like an affair. Yet instead of hiding their embraces with darkness, they hid their darkness with embraces. 

~~~

The table felt empty with Rajini. For all of Champa’s nagging, she loved her daughter and she knew Rajini would have known exactly what to do. Exactly how to send the room into fits of laughter. Exactly how to make Keshav smile. Ever since the discovery of the books, her son had become more distant, forlorn. Only Rajini could truly coax him out of his darker moods.

If she were here she would tell Kartik and Aman to get their heads out of their asses and talk.

Though they seemed more than amiable, throughout the meal, Champa could not help but feel that there was still something amiss. Though the sat next to each other, though they smiled, though they spoke to the others, keeping the conversation well and truly alive around the table, they did speak to each other. 

She had seen this before. She and Chaman had been the same, the day before he had left. She could still remember their argument. Every word had been etched in her bones though it had been a little of over ten years since it happened.

_He had just arrived back from a meeting with Aman. There had been no joviality on his face, not even anger. It was as if his conversation with his eleven-year-old nephew had drained the life out of him. She remembered the way he had taken out his trunk and placed it on his bed, packing his clothes and essentials._

_“What are you doing?” she remembered asking. He had not responded._

_She had waited a few moments before saying his name._

_“Chaman?”_

_Only then had he looked up, only then did his features contort with a thousand different emotions Champa had not been able to place._

_“I am leaving.” he had said._

_“Where are we going?” wherever he went she followed and vice versa. That had always been how they lived._

_“You will stay here with the children.” he told her._

_It was then that Champa had realised the matter was no simple one. It was then Champa had tasted an inkling of the devastation to come._

_“Did Aman do something?”_

_“Not yet,” Chaman had been livid. “Mark my words Champa the boy will lead us all to ruin.”_

_She had seen the beginnings of Aman’s vengeance then. The boy had sworn it, after all, in front of the whole kingdom, as his father’s bones and ashes were interred in the tombs. Though the oath was not one to be taken lightly, she had believed that with the right guidance Aman would eventually let it go._

_“Then your place is here,” she said firmly. “You need to honour your brother’s memory. You-”_

_“Do you know what he said to me?” Chaman’s words had come out as a whisper._

_Champa had been silent, waiting._

_“He said I was weak. A coward for not being there in battle. For not protecting Shankar.”_

_Champa had frowned at his words. “He is a-”_

_“A boy? Eleven years old? It does not matter. Neither Sunaina nor Kaali reprimanded him. What right do I have to speak against him, if even they condone his actions? I have no power, no sway against him. I want no part in this madness.”_

_“The boy who needs your guidance, now more than ever, you are the only one who is not so consumed by grief, the only one of authority, can show him the right path. The only one who will speak out against their silence. Their silence will only harden his heart against the Akhtari, you cannot leave him here alone.” the anger had risen in her then as well as the tears. “It would be like leaving a lamb to a pack of wolves.”_

_“He made it very clear he does not need me. I am practically exiled.”_

_Chaman’s steady determination on this matter had angered her. “Gods be good then fight him.”_

_Chaman had looked at her as if she had gone insane._

_“Perhaps he is right. You are weak.” Champa had hissed. “You are not the Chaman I knew, the Chaman I married.”_

_“Then leave me.”_

So she had. Cursing him every step of the way. What Chaman had done, or rather what he had neglected to do, was unforgivable in Champa’s eyes. She loved Aman as much as she loved Rajini and Keshav and she knew in his heart Chaman did too. That’s what made his act to leave all the more despicable. The fact that Chaman loved Aman and had still found it in himself to abandon him.

Champa knew he had regretted it sorely only a few months after he had left court. He had written about it in the many unanswered letters he had sent to her. 

There were moments where she thought that maybe, maybe if she had answered Chaman’s letters if she had not discouraged him from coming, things would have been different. She could also not deny the fact, that for all her high words and sentiments, she could have done more. But she had not.

She had spent the last ten years gently trying to guide Aman away, but the fact remained. She was merely his aunt. She held no sway and she had seen him grow more bitter as the years. She could not help but pin the blame on herself.

Though she supposed it did not matter, it had all turned out well in the end. She looked back at the two kings side by side. Though there was the distance the fact still remained that a marriage existed between them, and there was peace between the two lands. She prayed that the issue, whatever it was, would be resolved quickly. 

Perhaps even this thought was a selfish one for it served to absolve her own sense of guilt.

When the meal finished Sunaina smiled “It has been a while since we have had music. Chaman?”

“Bhabhi I am too full to sing or play. Perhaps Kartik, Nasireh or Aman could grace us with a performance.”

Nasireh shook their head “My harp has not been taken out of its case, I am afraid my whole performance will consist of tuning the damn thing.”

Keshav let out a snort which seemed to please Nasireh. It warmed Champa's heart to see Keshav happy, happier and far more open than he had been since Jaimini’s death. Another thing she had to thank Kartik and Aman’s marriage for.

“My throat hurts,” said Kartik. “Forgive me.”

Champa was not entirely surprised. He was still red-eyed. His voice was hoarse. It was obvious he had spent a great portion of his time in these past two days weeping. No one objected to his refusal. All eyes turned to Aman. 

The other king shrugged “If you insist mother.”

A sitar was brought and soon he sat cross-legged on the floor, after spending a few minutes tuning, the music started.

The notes were mournful, unlike anything she had ever heard. They were slow but precise, matching the pulse of a heart. It seemed for a moment as if her own heart had stilled. As if the world had stilled.

Then the notes became sweeping in their sorrow. 

Their soft mournfulness buoyed by anger. Their intensity heightening. He played as if he were cursed. He played as a man possessed. And it frightened Champa to him in such a state. Back again was the fire, the empty fevered fire that had consumed him for the last ten years.

He was focused far too focused. He did seem to have seen anything else but his fingers and the strings of the sitar. His plucking became harsher, violent. Champa found herself watching on with horror and fascination. He had never played like this before. Not even on his worst.

As Aman’s piece neared its crescendo. It stopped abruptly. Soon Champa saw why.

There was blood on his fingers. 

“Aman,” it was Keshav’s voice that spoke out then.

But Aman refused to acknowledge it, he continued to stare at his hands. As if they had drawn him back into a time and place he would rather forget. A time and place he that had now caught him in its thrall.

Keshav rushed to his side taking his bleeding hands in his own, Qabid and Kartik followed soon. Aman seemed to notice nothing, not the voices around him, no Keshav questioning him, not even Qabid who cleaned and bound his lacerations.

It was only when Kartik held his uninjured hand did Aman seem to notice his surroundings. 

“Kartik…”

“I think it’s time we left,” Kartik turned to others. He seemed about to give and explanation but decided against it. He bid them a curt goodnight before leaving with Aman.

Champa sat dazed. She had suspected it but she knew it truly now. Not all was well between them and it threatened everything. She could also hazard a guess as to what the issue may be. _Shankar Tripathi._ It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that could elicit such a powerful rage. The old guilt crept back in. She had to do something, anything. She did not want to repeat the mistakes of the past.

She leaned over to Sunaina and whispered in her ear.“The did not speak today. Not truly. And the music..”

“The path of marriage is never smooth,” said Sunaina. “You know this as well as I do.”

“Yes, but not all marriages concern the fate of two whole nations.”

Sunaina considered her “What do you want me to do?”

“Speak to him. You are his mother are you not?”

~~~

In the hours that passed after the meal Sunaina had nursed anger at Champa’s words. What right did _she_ have to question Sunaina's role as a mother? But a few hours pacing her room, hours of thinking on the situation had made her realise the truth in her sister-in-law's words. Sunaina Tripathi had been a bystander for too long. She had let her son ruin his own life with her silence. Speaking to him now was the least she could do to atone for it. 

So she left her room and made her way to where Aman shared his sleeping quarters with Kartik. Walking past the guards Sunaina knocked on the doors of her sons’ rooms. She only had to wait for a few seconds before she was greeted by Aman.

“Mother?” he questioned, his tone hushed.

“Guddu,” she replied. “Where is Kartik?”

“Asleep." Aman turned slightly aside to reveal Kartik in deep sleep on the bed, the thick plum velvet curtains were still drawn up. "He needs to take a sleeping draught for the nightmares. He will no wake for many hours.”

Sunaina observed the rooms. The velvet curtains caught her attention particularly.

“You should change the curtains to a lighter material,” she told him. “Surely they are too stifling when you do need them down.”

“Did you come to speak to me about redecorating mother?” his voice was dry but not without a hint of amusement.

“No,” admitted Sunaina. She held out her hand to Aman. “Walk with me. You used to love our midnight walks as a child.”

Aman studied her for a moment before taking her hand. There was something in this simple act, this resumption of their old familiarity that made Sunaina smile. She remembered being afraid, in the past ten years after Shankar’s death. Afraid of upsetting him, afraid of his anger, afraid to reprimand him. She had been afraid he would not listen. Would no longer see her as his mother. He was her only surviving child. She could not lose him.

But tonight, she had nothing to fear. Somehow she knew that for tonight at least he would listen. 

“Are you feeling better?” she asked. “How is your hand?”

“Much better,” he said, showing her his bound hand. 

“And Kartik?” she asked.

He seemed to be struggling to find a response. In the end, he shrugged. 

It was as Champa had suspected. Though on a surface level, for all intents and purposes they had made amends, they were distant. She was not sure how terrible the fight between them must have been to warrant such distance. Not even during Kartik’s injury were their emotions so high strung. Not even then did their sorrow seem to seep into the very bones, permeating through all those around.

_Shankar._

The realisation came to her. She should have known it earlier seen it in the way they acted talked. There had always been darkness underlining it. Like the rest of the nation she had been wilfully blind to it. But now it was hard to ignore. Though there was no doubt that they loved each despite everything. No doubt in her mind whatsoever. She knew Aman to be stubborn, he was not one to give up on his oaths easily. Old wounds were the hardest to smooth over.

“We have made amends,” he said after a while. 

“Have you spoken to him _properly_?” she asked. 

Once again there was silence. Sunaina opted for a different approach.

“Have I ever told you,” she said. “That I was never meant to marry your father.”

Aman stopped short in his tracks.

“No,” he said. “You never said. I always thought you both fell in love at the Phulantari festival all those years ago when you first met.”

“Your Aunt and Uncle fell in love then. But Shankar and I did not. We were merely friends.”

His sorrow seemed to be forgotten then. His curiousity was piqued.

“He was engaged, very soon to marry,” she continued. “A woman named Rani of the house Asthana. Surely you remember Lady Roshin? Rani was her older sister.” as soft smile appeared on her lips. “I had my heart set on another man, there were talks of ana engagement between our two families.”

“What was his name?”

“Kumar.”

Even saying his name now, made her heart ache in a way that it never had for Shankar, though she had loved her husband dearly. 

“What happened to him? To both of them?”

“You remember the battle of Golden Hill from your history lesson?”

“Yes.”

“They were both warriors. They both died then. Your father and I became closer in our grief.” she paused. “We never truly talked about it, however. Not as we should have. It hung like a shadow over us both. It festered. Though there was love between us there was also so much more” she looked at her son now. “Aman, do not be like us. Though you may show the world that you both have made amends, you may be able to dupe them all. But not me. Talk to him, Aman. Do not let whatever it is fester.”

Aman only held her hand tighter. They continued the rest of their walk in silence. 

* * *

Songs:

[The Story of Us](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nN6VR92V70M) \- Taylor Swift

[Mercy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfuyEdCpAp0) \- Shawn Mendes

[Shayad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnAyBZQc1vk) \- from Love Aaj Kal (FUCK Carsick Earring but this song fits)

[illicit affairs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLV2SJKWk4M) \- Taylor Swift (self promo time here is an [edit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpbfbPsqpLY&t=17s) I made for this song)

[Love if my life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v3xwCkhmies) \- Queen

[The Quiet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vykVdJDu28A) \- Troye Sivan

[Hold Me Tight or Dont](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FK2EaYSLEjQ) \- Fall out Boy

[Now or Never](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q9jNSwmEQ3s) \- Halsey

[Chew On My Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3J7ZKdCx-g) \- James Bay

[Bhairavi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9ZC7H_QAgs) \- Anoushka Shankar  
  



	46. A Pointless Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of drug addiction, suicidal tendencies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Mehan this is the most painful chapter yet. I'd rate it in an 8.5/10 but pain is subjective. Also thank Mehan for the sunrise scene (or alternatively kill them for it). Also thank you to Shreya for the Nasireh + Aman convo. You my dude are a fucking genius for this. Anyway yeah I am obsessed with Achilles Come Down as a song. Shoot me.

King of Kings, come down 

Do not let this vengeance consume

Do not let it lay you to waste

Do not let it come and entomb

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Kartik had never imagined that his final days on this earth would be spent drowning in administration. In truth he had never actually considered what his final days would be like, none the less he had not imagined them to be like this. As much as he hated it a part of him was glad, for it was exactly the kind of work he needed to distract himself from the pain that threatened to encroach him. It was mind-numbingly boring and beautifully so.

He had to thank Aman’s injury for that, he had injured his left hand while playing the sitar, the hand he wrote with. Out of sheer stubbornness or what Kartik liked to call stupidity - or ‘stunipity’ according to a once drunken Aman - the other man had tried to go on with administration as if nothing had happened. He would end up constantly reopening the cuts, staining the various papers red with his own blood. 

It was only when Kartik had broken their silence to sharply reprimanded him for it, did Aman let go of his idiotic obstinacy and allow Kartik to take over his share of the administration work. 

Yet Kartik supposed he was a hypocrite for criticising Aman’s mulish behaviour. He himself was no better. Ever since the night at the observatory, Kartik would no longer allow Aman to help administer the salves to his injured shoulder. Each time Aman had tried to help Kartik had rebuffed him and cruelly at that.

_I don’t want your pity_ he had hissed, irritated the last time his husband had insisted.

Aman was going to kill him there was no point in his trying to mend his shoulder, after all why fix something you intended on completely breaking? In the end, Aman had stopped insisting and Kartik had found himself regretting it sorely. The pain had gotten infinitely worse but his pride would not allow him to crawl back to Aman for help and he could not ask Qabid, it would worry the old man too much. So he bore the pain as well as he could and spent his days working.

The days passed quickly, far too quickly for Kartik’s liking.

_More, I wish I had more time._

The thought was a constant echo in his mind. He had not only come to love Aman as his husband, he had also come to love the others, the family who were his in-laws as his own. All of this in a space of six months. They had each become in their own way an inextricable part of him. He should never have allowed them to become so close to him. Should never have allowed them to love him. It was only going hurt them in the end.

Kartik blamed it on himself, his own longing, his selfish craving for a family to call his own. It had not let him consider their feelings, not truly. More often than not Kartik would absent himself from the presence of others. He knew it would not totally sever the bonds that had built between them. But he hoped that they would loosen enough that they would not feel the pain of his passing. They had to get used to him not being around.

Yet Kartik was not sure how much longer he could bear it the silence, the pain, the anger, the hurt. He only had one more day. One more day and it would be finished. The wait was it own form of torture.

More often than not in the final days of his life, on nights when he could not sleep, he found comfort in wrapping his mother’s dupatta around him. He rarely ever took it out. It only ever emerged when he found nothing else could give him comfort. It was his last resort.He had it wrapped around him tonight, on the day before he was supposed to die. Despite the sleeping draught he had awoken at midnight sweating from another nightmare.

The silent eerie kind, each one ending with Aman being murdered in horrific ways. Being murdered by each and every one of his family. 

He paced the room, trying to dispel the dream by studying the colours of Lekeisha' dupatta. His favourite. Her famed _saat rang dupatta_. The veil of seven colours. 

It has consisted of seven silk stripes - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and purple - sewn together to form one dupatta. Unsequined but brilliant, it would stand out against the white of her salwaar kameez. It had filled him with pride every time he saw her in it. It would fill him with comfort every time she had wrapped it around him.

And it was a comfort too knowing he would see her again, knowing he would see his baby sister Ofira again after sixteen years of their absence.

And his father. He remembered his father too. Not the man he had become but the man he had been. The one who had taught his the power in words, in poetry, in writing. The one who had instilled in him a love for old tales and times long gone. He hoped to meet _that_ father in the afterlife. Not the one who had left scars on his body, not the one who would leave him bleeding in the dust of the training arena. 

It was easier that way, thinking of his father as two separate people. Easier to separate his complicated roiling emotions. Easier not to fall into the neverending loop of loving and hating him.

As far as he was concerned Jagesh Singh had died along with his mother and after that Qabid had taken up the role of his father.

_Qabid._ He had to let the old man know exactly how much he meant to him. He needed to tell him before he died.

The dupatta would also bring up memories of his shared childhood with Devika. Countless days running through the palace terrorising anyone who came in their way, engaging in acts of small felony. Nasireh would join in too whenever they visited Khorshid all the way from Halep, they had a knack for charming the adults, distracting them, anytime the three of them decided to raid the kitchen pantry for sweets. Kartik would have done anything to go back to that time. Things were much simpler then.

What he remembered most of all however was sitting upon the battlements of Khorshid’s palace with Devika watching the sun rise in the east. 

They had done it frequently as children, whenever he needed to find comfort after the horrors his father had inflicted upon him. And after, when he had almost let the opium kill him, when he had begged for death, she would bring him to the battlements without fail as if she had hoped seeing the sunrise would remind him that life was no pointless.

And it worked.

For all his life the sunrise had become a reminder of hope. It reminded him that after darkness the light will always emerge and prevail. It reminded him to be strong and to carry on. Because one day, he had promised himself, one day he too would rise from the darkness. One day his light would also burn high for everyone to see. 

He felt the sudden yet powerful urge to see the sunrise at least one more time. To see it with Devika. To have one last memory of beauty to take with him when Aman eventually killed him.

He undid his mother’s seven-coloured-dupatta, placing it back in the bottom of his trunk and replaced it with a robe. As he walked towards the door his eyes chanced upon Aman who was fast asleep in their bed, beneath the embroidered plum canopy and its thick matching curtains. They were beautiful curtains but far more suited to winter than summer. 

He had been meaning to ask Aman to change them but never had the opportunity to. Perhaps he should ask him tonight. Perhaps he should make it his final wish. If Aman was not going to honour his _true_ last wish, of lying to the rest of the family about the circumstances of his death, he could honour this one at least. 

Kartik studied Aman now. Even in sleep, he seemed troubled, his brows furrowed, his lips shut tight. 

He wanted nothing more than to stroke his hair, kiss his cheek or forehead, to smooth over the anger that seemed to permeate into his dreams. But he dared not. Aman had made it more than clear that he did not want his touch or his love and Kartik would respect that decision. He would not violate it.

None-the-less the sheets had, once again, gone askew around Aman. While during the summer or spring months Kartik had not bothered to tuck him in, the weather being too sultry, tonight was strangely cool. So he went over and placed the sheets more securely over his husband. 

For a moment to Kartik it felt as if Aman was watching him through the slits of his eyes. But the sensation lasted only a moment. Aman’s features had not altered the slightest. 

“Sweet dreams,” he muttered. Not sure of what else to say. 

With that he walked out of the room, greeting the guards on night duty amiably, he made his way to Devika’s room. 

When he arrived she was fast asleep curled up on one side, her thumb lightly touching her parted lips. Kartik found himself smiling, remembering, the way she would suck her thumb in her sleep well up until she was twelve. The residue of her old habit had not entirely left. And it made his heart ache knowing he would never get to tease her about it again. 

Slowly, so not to startle her awake, he approached the bed and gently shook her shoulder. 

“Devi,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

She opened her eyes with a groan. When she saw Kartik she frowned. She never liked having her slumber disturbed.

“What by Shamsheer’s Flame are you doing here? Is it morning already? Has something happened?”

“No I-,” 

Before he could any explain further she rolled over to face the other side of the room, turning her back to Kartik, drawing the sheets more securely around her

“Then let me sleep,” she said.

And true to her word in a matter of seconds she had fallen fast asleep.

Kartik rolled his eyes, he could not help but smile at her efforts to dispel him, before shaking her shoulder again “Devi, Devi...Devi!”

She drew the sheets over her head “Let me be or I will gut you alive.”

“You don’t know how to use a sword.”

“I’ll ask Aman to do it for me instead.”

Kartik almost laughed at the bitter irony in her words. But he had come here for a purpose and he would not be dissuaded.

“I want to see the sunrise,” he said simply, hoping she would understand.

He saw her body go completely still beneath the covers. Slowly she emerged from the sheets and turned to him, her eyes narrowed in the calculating look she would often adopt when trying to figure out whether he had done something stupid or not.

“Can’t we wait another day?” she asked. “I’ve barely gotten any sleep last night and the sun will always be there tomorrow will it not?”

_Yes,_ Kartik thought to himself _the sun will be there but I won’t be_.

He did not answer her but simply looked into her eyes. _Please._ He did not have to plead out loud. She could read him like a book. She could read anyone like a book, him especially. 

She let out a sigh and relented, cursing, pushing the sheets aside and drawing on a robe over her sleeping clothes. She was still cursing when they left her room, making their way to the battlements.

There were only a few guards on patrol and they all greeted Kartik and Devika amiably, no doubt wondering why the two were here. None the less, they managed to shift their patrol so not to disturb the two of them.

They stood on the edge, near the watchtowers, as they once used when they were younger in Khosrhid. Shivering slightly Devika wrapped the robe around her body more firmly as the strangely frigid early morning air became icier. She leaned into Kartik for warmth and he did not hesitate to wrap his arms around her. They remained so for a while watching the blackened mountain lake, the Lake of Poets, reflecting the stars above. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“You don’t need to thank me,” said Devika. “You know that.”

Kartik knew he was blessed, beyond blessed that the gods had given him a friend like Devika. 

Cunning, brave and bold he was not sure how he would have survived without her. She had stood by him at every step of the way, ever since they were children. She had guided him through his kingship and had remained by his side even when he was possibly the most despicable human that ever lived on the earth. What had he ever done to warrant such loyalty?

_But loyalty is a double-edged sword._ His mind whispered.

He thought then of the dream he had, the one from the night after he had confessed his love to Aman, the one where Devika had taken up his own sword to kill Aman. 

He knew he should try his best to at least persuade Aman against his folly. Convince him to lie. Yet he never had the courage to truly talk to him, not since that night. He wondered if Devika would actually do it. Would she kill him if she found out?

“Devi?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you remember when I was injured on our arrival at Shafaq?”

“Yes,” she said as if she were wondering where the conversation was going.

“What would you have done if I died?” he asked. “Properly died?”

“You say it as if there is a way that one could be half dead.” she considered his question. “I would have killed Mandhav,” she said definitively. “And Aman too.”

He did not like her tone. It was too serious. Either it was because she had just awoken or she meant what she said in complete earnest. 

He felt his heart sink for his dream could very well become a reality. He could not allow that. He _will not_ allow that. Not while he still had breath, not while his heart was still beating, not while there was still life left in him.

“No,” he said firmly. 

“No?” she turned to face him. “If you had died I would never have forgiven either of them. You’re my best friend and no one is allowed to take you away, not even Aman. Not even if he never meant it.”

He could see the beginnings of wrath in Devika that would threaten to tear apart everything he and Aman had worked for. He needed her to understand that. He needed to make sure that she would not harm him. 

“Then I swear” he almost hated himself for what he was going to say. “I swear, I will no longer see you as a friend in the afterlife.”

He and Devika had no qualms when it came to being scathingly critically each other. Yet neither of them had been so harsh as to suggest that their friendship would ever be broken. The look in Devika’s eyes were confused and hurt. Hurt most of all. A hurt so raw and vulnerable that Kartik almost regretted his words. Almost.

Sometimes harshness was a necessity. Sometimes barbs worked better than honeyed words. 

“If I had died,” he explained. “I would rather my death be the last in the name of vengeance. The last in the name of war. No sacrifice is too big for me when it comes to the safety of my people, you know that. I would give my life for these two countries but I would rather you not dishonour my death and everything I have worked for by enacting petty vengeance. I expect much better from you.”

“I’d rather we not talk about your death,” said Devika hastily wiping away her tears. “You will not die. Not yet. You promised me remember?”

“I remember.”

He remembered. He remembered that day after his second meeting with Aman as she had embraced him swearing that she would keep him alive no matter the cost. 

He remembered another moment too.

A moment when he had been thrall to the opium. When they had to restrain him to his own bed. There had been a moment then, a moment when they had all given up, he considered it the darkest hour of his life. 

_He’s in pain_ Parvaaz had said through tears. _Qabid said he won’t make it. He is too far gone in the opium. It’s pointless resistance for him. Pointless for us to continue. Let him sleep, it would be a mercy._

He remembered through his own cursing, through his own pain, theirs most of all. He could not remember what Devika had said to Parvaaz, he could not even remember how she had stood. All he felt next was a hand running through his hair, he could feel the restraints loosen around his limbs, a voice in his ear. 

_It’s alright,_ the voice had belonged to Devika. _It’s alright. You can sleep if it hurts too much._

At that moment he thought she had given him permission to die. To succumb. But now he knew it to be something else entirely. She had given him a choice. And he chose to live. 

When he had woken up it had been to the sight of Devika sitting beside him. For a moment neither of them knew what to say. 

_It’s alright_ he had said reaching out to hold her hand. _You can sleep._

She had understood then the meaning in his words. He would never be so reckless with life again. Yet here he was a day before his death rescinding that very promise. 

“You have been very distant the past few days,” remarked Devika. “It’s worrying everyone.”

“With Aman’s injury, you know that I have to look after all the written materials and administration details.”

“I know but” she paused. “You’re not convincing anyone. Neither of you. You have not spoken to Aman properly yet have you?”

“I do not want to talk about this right now,” he said. “Everything will be fine by the morrow.”

“It better be, it is your six month anniversary tomorrow is it not?”

“Yes,”

It was bad luck in Akhtar to quarrel on the day of your six month anniversary. Kartik had always had terrible luck. This came as no surprise. 

Devika turned her attention to the first light of the rising sun. “Do you think it would look different here? I think I have only ever seen the sunrise in Khorshid.”

“It is the same sun.”

“But we have changed.”

“For better or worse?”

“Better,” she said. “Definitely better.”

He could not deny it. The world had come to peace for once. And if they would say anything of him after he was gone, could say at th every least that he brought peace in the end.But there was one more thing he had to say to say to her before he went.

“For the record Devi, you are the only reason I am here with you watching the sunset. And I just want you to know that I am grateful, beyond grateful that you have been here.”

“Stop being so stupidly sentimental,” but there were tears in _her_ eyes. 

He only held her closer to him and turned his attention to the sun’s slow rise. He had always loved it in Khorshid, the sunrise. The way his city would wash over in gold. _Kissed by the sun_ as the poets would say. 

But Shafaq was different. Shafaq was not gold but a thousand glittering gems of every colour imaginable, lined with silver, rose and gold. The lake reflecting it magnificence. The sunrise here touched that old urge. It pushed him towards the choice of life. 

He suppressed the primal urge within him.

The sunrise in Shafaq brought a new dawn, a new era. But he would not be a part of it. He had already given his word.

~~~

Qabid had barely seen Kartik since Aman had injured his hand. Kartik would usually without fail come to bid him good morning, affectionately try to help, before he was regulated to a corner for his incompetence. It had been three days since he last saw him. He had not even come during Aman’s lessons in which he usually volunteered to be a patient. This worried Qabid beyond anything else. 

He stood in his quarters in the early morning, busy measuring the ingredients for Kartik’s sleeping draught. Considering the state that he seemed to be in for the past week Qabid was certain he would not remember to ask him for a replacement of the draught. He decided to have a batch ready just in case.

As Qabid was doing this the door to his quarters opened to reveal a dishevelled Kartik, still in his sleeping clothes, a robe was thrown haphazardly over his body. It did not look like he had gotten much sleep. Qabid wondered if the sleeping draught no longer worked. 

“Good morning Qabid,” he said.

“Good morning Kartik, I see you are not dressed properly. Have your day clothes been mislaid?”

Kartik laughed, yet there was something in that laugh that seemed haunting. His laughter ended abruptly as he rushed towards Qabid enfolding him into his arms. His grip was firm and desperate as if he was trying to put everything he felt into this one embrace. 

At first, the old healer was so startled he almost dropped the lavender he was distilling. Though he was relieved to see Kartik, he was not sure what to make of this. He was used to Kartik’s spontaneous displays of affection, but somehow _this_ felt entirely different. In the end, he found himself returning the embrace as he always did. 

“Have I ever told you,” said Kartik still holding him. “How much I love you?” 

His words were as grave as a funeral. And Qabid could not even find it in himself to give him a dry humoured retort. He considered Kartik question carefully. Neither of them had ever acknowledged it verbally, they did not have to.

“You do not need to tell me Kartik,” he said. “I know.”

“No I have to,” said Kartik pulling away meeting his eye. “I have to tell you. I never truly told you I never said thank you for all you did for me, ever since I was eight years old. You need to know.”

“Kartik-”

“No Baba please, listen.”

Qabid had heard the first three words before _no baba please._ They were often uttered when Kartik had nightmares about his father. They were usually said with fear, said with desperation. The words were desperate here as well but in a different way. There was no fear in them. It was something Qabid could not quite place. 

All in all there was one word that stood out above all for the healer. 

_Baba._ Father. Qabid could no longer feel his own pulse. He looked at Kartik, afraid that he had imagined it.

“Baba?” he questioned.

“Baba,” confirmed Kartik looking into Qabid’s eyes. His voice was steady, resolute. “I know I have said it before, but truly, you have been like a father to me. You took me in the first night my father had beaten me. You gave me a safe haven, a place where I could weep, where I could be angry, where I could curse when everything around me went to hell. You gave me a place where I did not have to pretend.”

Kartik’s eyes were welling with tears but he continued “You were there for me when I did not know who I was. You soothed my aches and pains for the last sixteen years. You never faltered in your support or in your love. I don’t know what I would have done if you were not here. And…” he took in a deep breath. “I don’t care what royal etiquette dictates. You are my father and you will remain such until my dying day.”

This time it was Qabid who embraced Kartik. Holding him close, stroking his hair. 

“And you will always be like my son,” whispered Qabid. “The son I never had. I am proud of you.”

Qabid felt his body trembling, he could feel Kartik’s tears seep through the grey of his robes. Qabid knew he was trying to suppress violent sobs. 

“What have I always said?” asked Qabid softly. “You don’t need to pretend, you can weep all you like.”

For he knew how much it meant to Kartik. There was a certain bravery in acknowledging the pain of one’s past, and then moving forward, redefining the present and future. 

When Qabid pulled away he wiped the tears from Kartik’s wet cheeks. For Qabid Kartik was still the little boy he had taken to his home, fed and healed. Still, the little boy who would smile despite the pain. He smiled now too. 

Neither of them had to say anything more. 

It was here that door to Qabid’s quarters opened once again. 

It was Aman, arrived for a check-up on his hand as well as his morning lessons. He stood stiffly by the doorway observing them.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can come back later.”

“No,” said Kartik, his voice taking on the cool civil tone of polite common courtesy. “I will be leaving soon.”

There was rigidity in their conversation as if they were puppets, forced to play the parts of loving husbands in a show. And their imitation, for that’s what it looked like, came across as stale.

“I have called off court,” Aman blurted out. “I thought that…you have been busy. I thought you might need some rest.”

“Thank you,” Kartik's words were bitter.

“Mother wanted to see you,” continued Aman. “She was here in our room this morning but…”

“Where is she now?”

“The tombs.”

Kartik nodded “I shall be right there.”

He seemed ready to rush to the very direction of the tombs and Qabid, despite the tension in the air, was amused.

“Clothes Kartik.”

Kartik looked down at his bare feet, his robe, his old pair of trousers and the crumpled linen shirt 

“Clothes.” he agreed before turning to the door he stopped short as if remembering something. “One more thing. You need not bother with the sleeping draught anymore. I will not longer require it.”

Qabid had often read that sometimes a comforting presence of another could help waylay nightmares. Was it true that Aman’s presence was helping him? He had never truly believed something like this could occur, especially when the nightmares were as extreme are Kartik’s. He supposed that it _could_ help with reducing their frequency but he did not think it would stop them entirely. 

He found Kartik's statement suspicious and the despair on Aman's face only heightened them.

“Are you sure?” Qabid asked.

“Positive,” said Kartik. With that he left. 

~~~

Sunaina had been disheartened to find that Kartik and Aman were still no closer than they had been the night Aman had bled on his sitar. Though they spoke and laughed and joked in public it was clear their affection no longer extended to the private sector of their lives. 

She had also not seen Kartik properly in the past six days. She missed spending time with him outside family meals and court. He had come to be as close to her heart as Aman was. He was for all intents and purposes her other son. She had asked him to come and speak to her simply because she longed to see him once again. 

She was not entirely sure what brought her here to the tombs, however, yet here she was. They were built magnificently, she had to admit, with great archways, evidently intended to house the bones of many generations of rulers. Intended to house a great dynasty, if not _the_ greatest dynasty.

For the most part, the tombs were desolate, void. There were only three rulers buried here. Erhan, Dilaram and their cousin Ghazi. The barrenness was only emphasised by a great bare wall at the end of the tomb no doubt meant to house the construction of a great monument or artwork.

The tombs had an empty air about them. It inspired nothing in her unlike the tombs in Khorshid or in Chandan where she had once performed the Laal Panj ceremony alongside Shankar. The tombs had been eerie, haunted, overcrowded with the souls of dead rulers, and emblazoned with the red handprints of their consorts. 

She had only gone to the tombs once after the Laal Panj ceremony. The day they buried her husband’s bones and ashes beneath his stone visage. She could still remember Aman’s oath as clear as if he had spoken it yesterday.

_“I swear,”_ he had said. _“I swear unto Okhine, Shamsheer and Noor that I will avenge my father’s death. I will bring the Akhtari king to his knees. I will make him feel all the pain he has put our nation through.”_ his eyes had swept over all those present. _“I will kill him.”_

The words had not suited an eleven-year-old boy, they were far too grim, filled with far too much ruin. But she had not reprimanded him for the same anger had flowed in her own veins.

“Mother?”

Sunaina turned to see that Kartik arrived. Though he was dressed in an elegant angrakha of silver and russet it was clear he had not put a lot of thought on his appearance. His hair was uncombed and his beard dishevelled and it seemed it had gone uncut for many days. He greeted her affectionately, touching her feet as he always did. 

“You wanted to see me,” he said as he rose back up.

“Yes, I have not seen you for dies. I was worried and I wanted to spend more time with you.”

Kartik looked around “You certainly know how to choose the best place for quality family time.”

Sunaina laughed “An accident I assure you.”

“It’s certainly not as grim as the tombs in Chandan or as colourful as the ones in Khorshid,” commented Kartik. “The wall over in the end is especially bland.”

Sunaina turned back again to the wall at the back of the tombs. In Khorshid they had swords lining the far wall of their tombs, in Chandan, it was covered in blood-red handprints. 

“What _would_ you put there?” she asked him. 

Kartik smiled as if he remembered something “A glass mosaic.”

“That is oddly specific,” she remarked.

“Aman and I discussed it once,” said Kartik. “There are stained glass jewels on the walls in the palace in Chandan, there are also mosaics lining the walls of Khorshid. Why not combine the two arts and make mosaic of glass?”

“Then I think I would like to be buried here in Shafaq than in Chandan.”

Kartik looked around at the empty tomb “Would you rather not be buried with your husband?”

“No.”

“No?”

She remembered watching Shankar’s body burn until nothing remained but ash, bone and the locket he had always worn at his neck. The one that still contained Rani’s picture. She remembered the jealousy that she had felt as they buried it with him. Even in death, Shankar was closer to Rani than he had been Sunaina in life. 

To think, a pile of ash bones and a piece of jewellery could inspire such jealousy in her. 

She and Shankar had loved each other in their married life to be sure. Yet the shadows of Rani and Kumar had hung over them incessantly. She often wondered if Shankar was happy in the afterlife with Rani or if he was waiting for Sunaina to join him. At times it seemed that only love in her life that had been pure was the love she had for Aman. 

Yet she had destroyed even that in her silence. No, she would not be buried in the place that held such monstrous memories. 

“I will leave behind merely bones,” she told him. “It does not matter where they are interred. I will see him in the afterlife that is enough for me.” And Kumar. She would see him again too. See his smile, hear his laugh. It had been years “Besides I would rather be buried under a beautiful glass mosaic than in a grim tomb.”

“I always thought that when I did die,” said Kartik. “I would be buried with my mother and sister.”

He made no mention of his father. This only served to heighten the suspicions that had started to build in Sunaina’s mind. But she dare not ask him. He would tell her when he was ready. 

“Where would you be buried then?”

“Here as well, you have given me a family, a family I never thought I would have again.” he turned to her and looked down at his bangle the one Sunaina had given him. “I do not deserve it, your love. I would ask if I could be buried in the _kangan_ you gave me, but I do not have the right. I do not have the right to even wear it.”

He proceeded to remove it but Sunaina shook her head and wrapped his fingers more firmly around it 

“You are the _last_ consort of Mahan. You have every right.” she placed a hand on his dishevelled uncut beard. “And the past is in the past I think…” and somehow she knew it to be true. “I think Shankar would have been proud, of both of you.”

His fingers tightened around the bangle. His knuckles had turned as white as snow.

“I killed him,” said Kartik. “He was your husband. How can you find it in yourself to forgive me?”

She had remembered her rage when Kaali had told her that Kartik had killed the messenger. She had often asked Shankar to sue for peace, and for once he had listened only for the banner of peace to be returned bloodied, and later his body returned dead. 

She had remained mostly silent during the last ten years because she herself had believed that Kartik deserved nothing but death. How wrong she had been. 

“You killed him yes." she said. "You sent us the bloody banner. You did all that and at one point I hated you. But if I do not forgive you I would be denying the fact that you too are human, capable of great rage. I would be denying the fact that you were a child and knew not the horrors of war. If I do not forgive I will be denying the possibility of peace, I would be denying myself the opportunity of another son.”

Timidly Kartik leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

“Then I hope I have made you proud,” he said wrapping her arms around her.

“Proud,” she said. “Is an understatement.”

~~~

Aman could no longer see Kartik as the man he was supposed to kill. When he trained it was no longer to focus his mind on his goal. He trained as a distraction. As a means to forget. He trained until he could only feel the weight of his sword and the ache that seemed to reach well into his bones. 

He allowed himself no reprieve. To stop would mean to remember. To stop would mean a return to reality. The reality of Kartik’s death. 

Suddenly his opponent stopped fighting. Aman paused mid-swing to see Nasireh breathing heavily.

“You really know how to wear someone down,” they said. 

Aman found himself grinning “When you are as small as I, Nasireh, brute strength never works to your advantage. So you have to be light on your feet and outsmart the enemy.”

Nasireh rolled their eyes and affectionately ruffled Aman’s hair, an obvious attempt to highlight their height difference. While Aman was not particularly concerned or insecure about his short stature, for he had learned long ago how to command a room with his eyes alone, he did not usually appreciate people making disparaging comments on his height. As if it were the only thing that mattered. 

With Nasireh though it was different. Aman had to admit, even to himself, that their height difference was comical. 

“You train a lot for a king who champions peace. And the sword, I would warrant it does not match your stature, yet you wield it with ease.”

Aman looked down at his sword and frowned. Nasireh was correct. The sword was not built for him. But he had honed his body to it. Forced it to accept the burden. The sword was an ancestral one and most kings could reshape the blade to fit their weight and build, but Aman had felt it to be too blasphemous to his father’s memory. 

He simply shrugged. “I have been training for ten years with it.”

“After your father’s death.” Said Nasireh quietly. 

Aman nodded. That was the thing about Nasireh, they understood Aman in ways his family, or even Kartik could not. The only other person who he could liken to this level understanding was Jaimini. But she was dead. 

Nasireh understood his vengeance, even if they still thought Aman had not given up on it. They understood his sense of honour. But where Nasireh’s sense of honour was clear cut, Aman’s honour had tied itself into knots until he could no longer tell what was right or wrong.

“I did not have my father’s sword,” said Nasireh. “But I too pushed my body to limits after his death. It seems that’s what us children are supposed to do, remain in the past” They smiled. “I am glad however that I gave it up.”

“When did you give up?” asked Aman.

“Two years ago.”

“Why?”

“It was not worth it.” Said Nasireh. “I have come to learn that war and battle are complicated you either kill or be killed. Besides, when I commit vengeance I will not merely be taking one life but the livelihoods of a whole family and whole communities.”

Family.

Aman thought then of his own family. The way they had been completely shattered when Shankar died. It was only when Kartik arrived did they slowly start stitching themselves back together. If he took Kartik away not only would he be hurting Qabid, Devika, Parvaaz and Nasireh. He would be hurting his own family again.

Family.

Unbidden an image came to mind. The image of a little girl. The girl was around nine years old. She looked like Sarai, the young novice from Kashatr. In his mind, he saw her running into Kartik’s arms. He saw Kartik laugh as he picked her up and twirled her around before holding her against.

In Aman’s mind, Kartik would look back at him, his eyes filled with unadulterated love. Love for him. Love for the girl.

Family. 

Aman was throwing it all away, he had already thrown it away. Kartik hated him now, Aman could see it clearly. Aman felt powerless. He felt it pointless to resist the vengeance. Even if he did renounce it, even if he could find his way back into Kartik’s heart a part of his mind would always whisper _coward_ for as long as he lived and it would poison every ounce of love in his body.

“Do you ever regret it?” he asked Nasireh. “Giving it up? Does a part of you whisper that you are a coward for forgiving Rajni?”

When Nasireh looked at him Aman could see that they were startled. 

“Sometimes,” they admitted. “Though I have learned to live with it. I have learned to tell it to be quiet. I know one day that voice will cease. Besides I have seen Rajni in person, I have spoken with her, I have seen her with each and every one of you. I have seen her with Kusum. I admire her and she has proven honourable. I know I made the right choice. I would be taking away someone brilliant beautiful and honourable. I cannot live with that, knowing I destroyed someone who still had so much to give to the world.”

_And I will be doing the same_ he thought _He is the better king, a true king. He had fought battles, he is had ruled for longer, he is charismatic, kind and beautiful. Everything I am not. I am nothing compared to him. I cannot do this by myself. I cannot rule two nations without him._

Aman’s own belief was so powerful so entwined in himself he had thought that he was too far gone. Yet here was Nasireh, Nasireh who had faced the same loss. Nasireh who had overcome it. 

Six months ago he would have killed Kartik in an instant had he been given the opportunity. But now he balked at the very thought. Every wall he had built was slowly crumbling. A part of him wanted to let go, another part of him wanted to hold on. 

But one thing was clear. He would no longer be himself after Kartik’s death. His family we be shattered again. All because in one way or another they had come to love a man who had once hurt them. 

_The most dangerous thing_ he realised _is to love someone. Because when they are gone you die a thousand little deaths in their wake._

* * *

Songs: 

[Lost Cause](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhixHAAKAtE) (Imagine Dragons) -for Aman

[All You Never Say](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6iB5MLmmgyE) (Birdy) - For Kartik when it comes to Aman

[The Archer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KpKc3C9V3w) (Taylor Swift) - for Aman when it comes to Kartik

[Achilles Come Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5aMav6q-o0) (Gangs of Youth) - the very obvious inspiration for this chapter

[If I Die Young](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NJqUN9TClM) (The Script) - for Kartik thinking about his death

[Mouth of the River](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiZCzG4RF1M) (Imagine Dragons) - Aman’s angst concerning vengeance

[Tune Jo Na Kaha](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01HR1uP4kic) (from New York) - for Aman and Kartik and kinda used for the sunrise scene

[Cosmic Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1TG4LBBXedc) (Florence + the Machine) - for the general angst

  
  



	47. No Saints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mehan for spicing up the Aman and Kartik POVs and for helping me chose the scent (you'll know what I mean). Love you asshat. I don't know what I would have done without you.
> 
> Anyway, I hope I have ruined curtains for everyone.
> 
> ALSO I have changed my mind. Fuck team Kartik and Aman. I'm on Team Gabru.

They tell you again and again

To forgive and then forget

But love and hate are engrained 

In the heart, a permanent silhouette

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

When Kusum was not working on her embroidery or speaking with various other members of the royal family she contented herself in sitting by the window of her room watching the road from Kashatr for any sign of a messenger. 

Every week without fail the messenger, Diljit, would bring letters from Rajini, Kaali and Parvaaz. A part of Kusum always knew that he would arrive after precisely seven days sitting astride his piebald horse, as he travelled up the road from Kashatr. Yet she could not help but worry. 

She was sitting at her window now, alternating between her embroidery and watching for Diljit’s arrive. He was due to arrive today, and he was later than he had been last week. 

The rational part of Kusum’s mind knew that the delay in his arrival may have nothing to do with Rajni’s well-being. Yet the anxiety burgeoned in her unbidden. 

For the most part, she could calm her raging nerves, by distracting herself and turning her attention to her embroidery. However, there were moments. Moments, when her heartbeat increased at a rapid rate and nothing she would do could it calm it down. There moments when the terrible thoughts of what may have happened to her lover, to her friends in Kashatr, invaded her thoughts. 

To wait, she had come to realise, was its own form of agony. 

Finishing one more stitch Kusum ventured to look up out of her window once again. This time to her relief for there was a figure sitting atop a piebald horse, riding up the road from Kashatr. 

Her anxiety at Diljit’s delay was transformed into inflamed anticipation for the news he would bring. Was Rajni well? Had Rakesh done anything? How were Parvaaz and Kaali? Had anything happened to them?

She knew she should wait until Diljit actually rode up the mountain and announced himself into the throne room. But she also knew she could not simply stay in this room doing nothing. She wanted to run into the throne room right now. She would go mad from all the damned waiting.

She needed to distract her mind. Give it some meaningful purpose to occupy itself with. She looked down at her embroidery. It was a gift she had intended to send to Rajni when it was finished. A sash to tie to her sword, embroidered with sunflowers, a reminder of where they had shared their first kiss. 

But it would not be enough to distract her, the sunflowers being a direct reminder of why she was even waiting in the first place. It would be for the best if she let the embroidery be. 

She needed to get out of her rooms and find someone, anyone else to share the news of the messenger with. So she abandoned her embroidery, walked out of her room and into the hallways of Shafaq’s palace.

In such a huge dwelling it was hard to know where everyone was at any given time. While Kusum had managed to pick up on the rough daily schedules of everyone she was close to, Aman had called off court today, meaning that the schedule for today was rendered useless. She would not know exactly where everyone eas.

Except for perhaps Sunaina. The other woman was not wholly bound by the court and lately, she had taken up to spending some of her mornings in the tombs.

Kusum herself had only been there twice, it was too empty and cavernous for her liking. She decided however to go there today. After all, it on the other side of the palace meaning it would give the messenger enough time to arrive. 

At first, she tried to take her time, steadying her gait to a slow walk. But as more time went by her pace quickened so rapidly that by the time she arrived at the tombs, she was running.

Stopping by the magnificent arched entrance she saw that Sunaina was not alone. Kartik there too, arm in arm with his mother-in-law. The two fo them were looking over at a blank wall that stood on the far end of the building. Kartik was the first to notice Kusum’s presence before he could greet her however Kusum herself spoke first.

“Diljit, the messenger is here,” she said breathless from her run. “From Kashatr.”

“Is he in the throne room?” asked Sunaina.

Kusum felt the colour rise to her cheeks. She shook her head.

Kartik gave her an indulgent smile. “You would give our heralds a run for their money I’d warrant”

“Oh don’t tease her,” said Sunaina. “If you had to spend _your_ days away from Aman, you too would be constantly watching the window.”

Kartik still smiled but it was thinner than it had been earlier. 

“We should go greet him.” he turned to Sunaina. “Are you coming, mother?”

“You two go alone,” suggested Sunaina. “I would like to stay here a little longer.”

Kusum did not understand Sunaina’s fascination with the tombs but she decided to let it slide. Kartik wished Sunaina a goodbye, kissing her cheek affectionately, promising to see her at the midday meal, before proffering his elbow to Kusum. She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and together they headed for the throne room.

“How is your embroidery coming along?” he asked. “Your piece for Rajni?”

“It is coming along well,” Kusum replied. “I should have it finished by the time the messenger leaves for Kashatr in four days. I should be able to show you before then.”

Over the last few months, she had formed a habit of showing both Kartik and Nasireh her various embroidery pieces. Nasireh had a critical eye, and she appreciated their feedback wholeheartedly, while Kartik was content with lavishing her with praise. Which her ego appreciated more than anything.

“You do not need to worry about that,” Kartik patted her hand. “Take your time, you need not show me. It is meant for Rajni after all.”

“It does not mean I do not wish for you to see it,” she insisted. 

“That is very sweet of you,” His voice was low, his tone heavy with sadness. 

Though he seemed better than he had been a week ago she knew that whatever had transpired between him and Aman still weighed on him.

“Are you and Aman still fighting?” she ventured to ask.

“We will be fine,” he said. “You know very well that we fight too much for our own good.”

“Yes, but it is usually resolved within the hour, it does not stretch over six whole days. Besides, it will be half a year since you married Aman tomorrow. I thought you would make it up to each other by now.”

“Life is never as we plan it Kusum,” said Kartik. He sounded utterly defeated. “All shall be resolved you need not worry.”

“Can I help in any way?” 

Kartik looked at her in a way that made her want to embrace him. Let him cry into her shoulder if he needed to.

“No,” he said finally. “No, you needn’t do anything.”

Kusum thought back to her previous relationship with Rakesh. She knew that it had soured slowly over the course of many years. Over time the arguments had grown, escalated until it was the mess it was now. She had thought that with Rajni things could be different. That for once she would not have to endure small hells in every corner. 

But these small hells had now infiltrated Kartik and Aman relationship and that terrified her, knowing that even a bond such as theirs could be tainted. 

As they walked, they encountered the herald who had only just started to make her way out of the throne room. No doubt to inform them all of the arrival of Diljit from Kashatr.

“Your Majesty?” she questioned the surprise of their presence so close to the throne room evident.

“My apologies Neela,” said Kartik. “I am afraid the Lady Kusum has decided to take on some of your duties today.”

Neela laughed. “Thank you, My Lady, I must, however, inform the others.”

“Of course,” 

With that Neela gave a bow and went to inform the rest of the family. Kartik turned to Kusum as they continued to walk, his familiar features took on their familiar teasing look.

“At this rate Kusum, I think we might have another wedding on our hands within the year.”

Kusum grinned, the thought of marrying Rajni was not a new one to her. At times she could think of nothing else. However, spending time in Mahanite courts had taught her how sacred marriages were to the Mahanite. Marrying twice in a lifetime, even if your first partner died, was still considered an act of bigamy. 

“It is not that simple,” said Kusum. “I know in Akhtar marriages are not considered so sacred but, in Mahan, we will need to be absolutely sure about this before we are engaged, our guardians have to give their consent. And the planning Kartik. Do you know how much there is to plan?”

Kartik gave her an amused smile “I do in fact know how much planning goes into a wedding. If you have not noticed I am a married man. And as for permission, as your brother, I give it wholeheartedly. Elope with her tomorrow for all I care.”

“I would not elope.”

“Why?”

“The jewellery, Kartik, how can I get all the jewellery if I elope?”

“A fair point.” conceded Kartik, laughing.

“And...” continued Kusum. “If I elope how will you lead me down the aisle when they put me in a blindfold?”

Kartik gave a start “Me?”

Kusum had thought about it many times. Seeing as her parents were dead she had decided that Kartik and Sunaina would lead her down the aisle when she married, to stand in for her parents. 

“Yes,” she smiled. “You’re the closest thing I have to a brother. And Sunaina is the closest thing I have to a mother.”

Kartik thought pensively for a moment before he said lightly “Perhaps Gabru can lead you instead. Aman said he used to be a guide dog. I think he would be a better guide than I ever would.”

Kusum could not help but laugh at the image of Gabru leading her down to the statue of Okhine on her wedding day. 

“It would make for an interesting sight” she conceded. “How about you, Sunaina and Gabru?”

Kartik smiled seemingly satisfied. “That sounds like an excellent plan.”

At last, reached the entrance of the throne room. Diljit stood in the middle, humming quietly to himself. As soon ash he saw Kartik he bowed. From his relaxed demeanour, Kusum also allowed herself to relax. If something terrible had happened, Diljit would not be so at ease.

“Good afternoon your Majesty, my Lady,” he greeted.

“Good afternoon to you too Diljit,” responded Kartik. “How are your husband and the twins?”

“Well enough,” answered Diljit. “Girish is tending to the fields, the summer is proving fruitful thus far. And little Soniya and Baljeet are now in school, though I warrant they are doing more teaching than learning.”

“Parvaaz?” asked Kusum. “Has he taken up lesson with the children in Balkar?”

“Aye, he thought it the best way to learn the language,” said Diljit. “If I may be so bold to ask where is the other king?” 

Usually, Kartik and Aman arrived together. Though sadly Kusum had gotten used to their seclusion from each other, it must have been disconcerting for others who still saw the kings as inseparable.

“He is training,” said Kartik. “He likes to train the mornings with Nasireh on days when court is not held. He should be here any minute.”

Sure enough, as if summoned Aman and Nasireh as well Devika, Chaman, Champa and Keshav arrived. Aman too greeted the messenger asking about his health and family. By now Kusum was growing impatient. She wanted to read the letter than Rajni had written to her, she wanted to see her lover’s handwriting, hear about her days, her woes and her happiness. 

She was on the verge of interrupting the conversation when Diljit took the letters out.

“These three are from Parvaaz, Rajni and Kaali,” he said handing three letters to the kings. He then got out two more letters he handed one to Keshav. “From Rajni,” for the final letter, he turned to Kusum “For you My Lady.”

He did not need to say who it was from. Eagerly Kusum ripped open the seal devouring her lover’s writing. She did not read it. Not yet. She only took in penmanship the familiar curves and flourishes. Her heart swelled at the sight.

“There is more,” continued Diljit. “Not in letters but the High Priest Ravi has asked me to inform you that in three days time, he is to arrive to escort you to Kashatr in two weeks to chose an heir.”

Kusum watched as Kartik and Aman did not meet each other’s eyes. Though they smiled and gave the proper words of thanks it was not with the enthusiasm that one would expect when faced with the prospect of introducing a child into the family. 

As the rounds of congratulations came, surrounding them in warmth and love it seemed to Kusum that Kartik and Aman stood in the middle of it all, as still as stone and as cold as ice. Unmoving and burdened.

~~~

The news of Ravi’s arrival and the subsequent selection of an heir had excited the family once more. But Aman Tripathi felt as if he were made to swallow ice-cold rocks. During the meal, Aman found the courage and the opportunity to tell his mother the news.

“I am going to be a grandmother” had come her whispered realisation out of Sunaina’s lips.

Her shock eventually turned into exuberance. As she went forward kissing both him and Kartik asking them a million questions Aman could not free his mind from the image of the little girl in Kartik’s arms. Both of them smiling, both of them laughing. Both of them filled with nothing but love. For each other. For him. 

_I could have that_ a part of him whispered _with him I could have a family all I have to do is let go._

It was becoming harder to convince himself that he was indeed on the right path, that vengeance was the only way. But it harder still to do what he wanted, to do what his heart desired. He felt he had caused Kartik too much pain for them to go back or move forward, he felt as if he had dug himself into too deep of a ditch to crawl back out. 

He had, after all, all but ensured that Kartik hated him. He could see it in the other man’s eyes.

During their midday meal, Aman could not help but constantly watch Kartik. Taking him in, memorising him one last time before he left. He had noticed that Kartik had tried not to be too involved in the conversation, tried to distance himself from the others. He did not eat a voraciously as he was often inclined to. 

It was Kusum who noticed, and with the help of Devika, they managed to coax him into a better mood, something that was almost reminiscent of his old daring self. They even managed to draw him into five rounds of cards - three of which Aman himself won. 

As they played Aman could not help but watch Kartik interact with everyone around him. 

_He had become a brother, a son, a nephew for them, all of them, he had become family._ He realised _He could one day be a father, my husband in earnest._

Somehow a part of his mind did not wholly recoil from the latter thought. A part of him welcomed it.

While during the meal and the game Kartik was in high spirits by the end he seemed worn out, tired, withdrawn, no better than he had been at the beginning. 

“Bhabhi?” started Chaman, as they packed the cards. “Whatever did happen to Shankar’s hunting dogs. They were only two years old when I last saw them. Beautiful creatures too.”

“They died,” answered Sunaina. “They were extremely loyal they refused to eat after Shankar’s death. They died of starvation.”

Kartik stood from the table, he was pale, unfocused. Everyone looked up at him as if they were afraid of what he was going t do.

“I would have loved to have spent more time with you all,” said Kartik. “But I am afraid I cannot.”

The words seemed to have shot an arrow through Aman’s heart. Was he trying to say goodbye in the only way he could?

“Why what is wrong?” asked Champa.

“The talks of dogs remind me that Gabru needs a walk,” said Kartik. “I don’t think I have walked him in three days.”

“I walked him,” said Aman. “Did I not tell you?”

He had _not_ in fact told Kartik, but he did not think the rest of his family would appreciate it if they realised that he and Kartik could not even speak to each other of small things.

“Of course you did.” Kartik was smiling him, the grin, wicked and brilliant. 

His eyes seemed to say _I told you loved the damn dog_. But as most things seemed to do nowadays the pleasant moment lasted for a mere second at most. Kartik turned away from Aman. As if even looking at him was difficult...distasteful. 

“None the less,” he continued. “I have not seen him in many days. He must have thought I have abandoned him.”

“By all means go,” said Sunaina with a smile. “Some time in the sun would do you good, you have gotten pale sitting at your desk working on administration.”

Kartik smiled and bid them all adieu before leaving for the kennels. 

When he left Aman felt at a loss. He was not sure of what else to do with his time. 

He had called off court today so that Kartik could spend the final day of his life however he wished. But Aman himself did not know what to do.

He did not feel particularly inclined to talk to anyone, he had no work to occupy himself. His mind was not clear enough to play the sitar and he was afraid of injuring himself, cutting open his fingers again. He supposed he could train, but he had already trained once this morning and he knew Nasireh would be disappointed if they found out he trained again.

As such Aman found himself in his own rooms pacing. He tried to read a book, a new find from the catacombs in the library, but the words were no longer able to be strung together with ease in his mind, he understood what they meant individually but he could not, for the life him, form a coherent sentence. 

He tried to take out his old art supplies sketch something, anything, as he used to when he was younger but attempting to create beauty on paper seemed blasphemous against the horrors that roiled in his very soul.

He sat the study defeated, the half-open book, the blank pages glaring back at him. Even they had an accusatory look. 

Was this what was destined to become of him after Kartik’s death? An aimless man, a lost man, roaming his rooms, the will to live abandoning him bit by bit every day. He wondered if he would still be able to rule the kingdoms after Kartik’s death or would he be too lost in his grief, to caught up in his own guilt, to even get out of bed. 

He knew that eventually, his own mind would slowly poison him, kill him, even if Devika did not. 

Life would not be the same after Kartik, he had come to accept that. He had come to accept that a long time ago. But it was now that he understood that Kartik’s presence by his side had become an essential part of him. And he would miss him, he would miss him as acutely as he missed his own father.

Aman turned away from his thoughts, he turned his attention to the antechamber, the one Erhan had built in this very room, a small temple dedicated to Noor to stave off the horrific nightmares that had plagued him. Perhaps it could help Aman himself allay his own worries. 

Aman rose from his desk, removed his shoes and knelt in front of the stature of Noor joining his hands. Hoping it would provide him with some comfort and salvation. 

Noor, robed in intricate cloths depicting constellations, looked down on him. Their eyes were kind. Their slender arms holding the sun and moon aloft and in balance. 

The memorised prayers came automatically to Aman’s lips, he need not think about what his lips spoke. The proper words were already etched on his tongue. His thoughts, his true prayer, however, were something less intricate, it’s wording not so flowery or delicate.

_Please_ he begged. _Guide me._

But not realisation came. No guidance or sudden lightning strike of understanding. No solution. 

It seemed all that Noor deemed to show him was the image of Kartik dancing at their wedding and under the flames and starlight of the Phulantari. He saw Kartik as he was in the water of the Godsblade grinning like the fool as the water ran down his body. 

He saw Kartik press his reddened hands against the walls of Chandan’s tombs during the Laal Panj Ceremony. He saw his dangerous dance with the flame during the Khan Khardesh. He saw Kartik’s face only inches away from his as Aman had once drawn him in a for a kiss in the sands of the arena. 

He saw Kartik blooded from the wound inflicted while trying to save him as they raced on one horse towards Shafaq. He saw Kartik as he had first seen him kneeling before Okhine, weeping. 

But he saw not only memories.

He saw a future. The now-familiar sight of Kartik and their daughter. The sight of Kartik standing by his side as they stood before the people. Kartik embracing him under the walls of Khorshid, grinning, his clothes stained with the dye thrown from the Gulnaziri. 

Even when Aman opened his eyes all he could see were reminders of Kartik, the littered every inch of this place.

He would forever feel Kartik’s absence. He would feel it in the very palace, within the mortar of every wall, in the very foundations. Ever since the time of Erhan and Dilaram, this city had been built, moulded for two kings. 

Two thrones, two kalgis, side by side, equal in every aspect. 

As much as Aman wished otherwise, he was only one man, he could only sit on one throne, and gods be good he could not even pin his own kalgi if his life depended on it. The empty space where Kartik should be would remain, tormenting him with visions of what the combined nations of Mahan and Akhtar could have been if he did not kill Kartik.

Suddenly the temple, his safe haven, his sanctuary felt like a prison. Stifling. His emotions seemed to mist over all reason. He knew only one thing. He could not stay here for a second longer. If he did he was sure to go mad.

He found himself stumbling out of the temple hastily putting on his shoes. He found himself running out of his rooms, out of the palace into the grounds, gasping for breath, trying not to cry.

He ran his vision blurring. He ran until his legs ached, until lungs burned until he knew not where he was. It was only when his body begged for breath did he stop in the gardens beside a row of rose bushes.

He tried clear his mind of all thoughts focusing on his ragged breath, on the smell of roses trying to ease it. 

He tried to distract himself with his surroundings. The gardens were beautiful and in full bloom. Aman had to thank both the head gardeners from Mahan and Akhtar for that. He had been told that the gardens had been barren and wild for the last seven hundred years, ever since the death of Ghazi. As soon as he and Kartik had been engaged to be married, they had each sent a team of artists, builders and gardeners to see to the upkeep of Shafaq.

He reminded himself to commend them later for their beautiful work. 

Aman focused his attention on studying the roses, the bluebells and hydrangea. He took them in, their scent, their beauty and brilliance. Doing so Aman had managed to still his mind adequately, managed to breathe better.

He did not want to think. He did not want to do anything. He sat down behind the row of rose bushes, his back against them, not caring for the state of his black angrakha, not caring for the way the thorns stuck in his hair.

It was the then that he heard footsteps from the footpath on the other side of the rose bushes. The familiar gait of Kartik and Gabru’s energetic trot.

Aman did not want to talk to anyone. Least of all Kartik. While the rose bushes obscured him from view from the footpath, he was not completely hidden. If Kartik were to look carefully he would see him.

Aman willed his quivering body to still. He drew his knees up to his chest, in an attempt to make himself seem smaller. He turned slightly so that through the leaves, he could see the familiar figures of Kartik and Gabru. The other king was sombre, Gabru seemed to have sensed his master’s mood and kept looking back at Kartik.

Kartik stopped, let out a sigh before he knelt by Gabru, rubbing the back of the canine’s ears. He smiled softly. But the smile did not quite reach his eyes.

“I think Gabru, one of my biggest regrets will be leaving you behind,” he said softly, but clear enough that Aman could hear. “You’ve been abandoned before and I don’t want you to think I have abandoned you, not willingly.” Kartik gave a soft laugh. “Gods what am I doing? I do not even know if you can understand me.”

Gabru nuzzled his hands licking his fingers. A sure sign that he understood.

“I’m going to miss you. I know you’ll miss me too,” he said. “You have been beyond loyal. But you have to promise me Gabru that you won’t be _so_ loyal that you will follow me as other dogs do. You will eat your meals you will live and look after everyone when I’m gone.”

Gabru had stopped licking his master’s hands and was looking at Kartik.

“You need to be here with them. All of them. You need to make sure they are safe. You need to make sure they laugh, that they don’t fall wholly in despair.” Kartik smiled. “You need to be there when Rajini and Kusum are wed. I need you to guide Kusum down that aisle in my stead. I think you would be the first dog in history to lead a bride down the aisle.”

“I trust you Gabru, dod you understand? I am putting all my trust and faith in you. You and I have always been alike and now I need you to be there for them, give them hope and love and affection. I need you to keep them smiling or give them comfort however you can. You need to look after Mummi, Baba, Umcha, Umchi, Keshav, Nasireh, Parvaaz, Devi, Rajni, Kusum and…” Kartik paused as if his considering what he was to say. “And Aman.”

Aman felt his breath catch in his throat. He had not expected this. He had thought Kartik’s care had turned into utter hate.

“By Noor’s Light, Gabru, I can’t even look him in the eye anymore,” Kartik hung his head low. “I have done him wrong. I fucked up. I fucked up long before I knew it. On the day I killed Shankar. I destroyed _his_ life and I can never forgive myself. I was stupid, stupid for thinking he would ever want me. Stupid to expect anything but hatred from him when I have done nothing but complicate his life. I’ve kept my distance these past few days. I hope it makes it easier for him. And yet I love him. I can’t stop loving him,” 

He said it with certainty. Aman understood then that he was not ignoring him because he hated him. He never could hate him. His coldness came from a place of pain. Aman had hurt him. His avoidance came from a place of love. He was trying, in his own way, to help Aman, support him as he had always done.

“And you have to make sure you’re there for Aman especially. Sometimes his moods change rapidly and he might push you away, but you _have_ to be there. You have to make sure he keeps going, make sure you distract him from his thoughts. He will never admit to it, stubborn fucking mule that he is, but he falls in melancholy too often and you need to distract him from it, if not he will be a slave to his mind.”

Aman had never known of the extent that Kartik had come to love and understand him. Never understood how wholly, truly and irrevocably Kartik had loved him. Still loved him. 

_We only had six months together yet he knows me better than I do._ Aman thought to himself. 

“He might seem like he hates you, he might seem cold and distant but he cares, truly he does. He would not have let me keep you, he would never have eventually allowed you into our rooms, he would never have gifted you that ornate collar, or looked after you the past few days when I could not” Kartik smiled, his next words come out broken, stilted, clouded with tears. “He may never love me, but he loves you. _He loves you Gabru_.”

Kartik was weeping in earnest now. At moment Gabru rushed forward licking his face so rapidly, that in the end Kartik was a laughing crying mess. 

When Gabru finished, Kartik sat on the path, once again in his pensive mood.

“I know I am asking so much of you Gabru, but there is one more thing,” 

At this the dog placed his head on Kartik’s lap, looking up expectantly.

“I have always wanted to be a father, to have a child of my own. Even if I can never have that I am glad I had you. But you need to stay loyal to Aman. He is your father as much as I, even if he moves on and finds it in himself to love, to truly love someone else. And when the time comes, when Aman chooses and heir, I want you to be a good big brother to them. You will do that for me won’t you?”

Gabru rose for Kartik’s lap, put both his paws on Kartik’s chest, he looked into his master’s eyes. Kartik seemed to relax. Somehow Aman knew that Gabru would uphold his part of the bargain. He felt himself suck in a sharp breath. Too sharp. Too loud. Kartik pushed Gabru off and turned to where Aman was hiding. Aman ducked lower.

“Must have been the wind,” Kartik muttered he turned back to Gabru. “It’s time we headed back anyway. You need to a good meal, some rest and I need to bathe.”

In a matter of minutes, the man and his dog left leaving Aman on the floor of the garden. When he was absolutely certain Kartik was gone. Aman breathed a sigh of relief, stood and walked towards the palace. 

He knew not where he was going, only not to his rooms. He knew Kartik would be there, bathing and it would not bode well for Aman to interrupt him. 

Not only would it be an inopportune moment, considering his state of undress, but he also knew Kartik bathed as a way to relieve his nerves. Sandalwood and frankincense. Aman knew the scene well. Sometimes when Kartik sleep by him freshly after a bath Aman would find an excuse to get closer to him, if only to breathe in his scent for a little while longer. 

“Aman?”

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the voice of Chaman Tripathi from behind. Aman turned to face him.

“Uncle?” he questioned.

“You seem out sorts,” remarked Chaman approaching him, he proceeded to take out the leaves and petals that littered Aman’s clothes. “Look your angrakha has leaves all over. Where have you been?”

“The gardens,” he answered. “Evidently.”

“Been wrestling the rose bushes have you?”

Aman looked down to see there were in fact thorns as well rose petals and leaves. His hands had a few scratches. It was only now that he felt a slight string at his left cheekbone.

“Perhaps I was,” said Aman smiling.

“Were you trying to find Kartik a rose for you half-year anniversary tomorrow?”

Aman’s smile grew wider. When he was a child, a crazed happy idiotic child, he had heard the story of how a little boy had risked the thorns of a rose bush to obtain the most beautiful flower of them all which was fabled to grow right at the very centre of the plant.

Thinking he should gift his mother such a wonderful flower he had dove into every rose bush in the gardens to find a flower. None were quite to his fancy. It was only when one of the guards had found him screaming for help, his legs sticking out of the bush, did that particular activity stop.

He was surprised that Chaman remembered. 

“Something like that,” he said. 

“That reminds me,” started Chaman. “I still have Kartik’s epic the one he wanted to gift you. Where is he now? I should hand it to him.”

“He’s bathing,” 

“At this time of day?”

Aman shrugged “It is a strange habit of his.”

“I’ll give it to you then. Though I am sure Kartik would have liked to gift it to you himself, I shan’t disturb his bath, besides I have much to prepare for my journey later tonight.”  
  


“Journey?” questioned Aman. “Where are _you_ going?”

“Back to my country estate or have you forgotten.”

Aman had in fact forgotten. Not only because the last few days had been particularly trying but because he had gotten so used to the idea of Chaman staying here with all of them that the idea of him leaving seemed inconceivable, entirely in the realm of fantasy. 

He did not have time to respond however, Chaman beckoned for him to follow. 

Wordlessly Aman accompanied his uncle to his chambers. They were modestly furnished as was Chaman’s habit. Here the other man went to the desk where Kartik’s box of poetry lay. He picked it up in his hands as if it were something sacred. He turned to Aman and passed it to him.

“Tell him I said he wrote beautifully,” said Chaman. “He has a way with words that lets you see things vividly.”

“I have only read bits and pieces,” admitted Aman. “I agree however he does write beautifully, though I am never one to judge poetry.” 

“None-the-less I think you will like this epic particularly. I may be wrong but I do think he based Aayush off of you.”

“How do you know?”

“The writing is far too intimate for merely a bystander. And the description of the eyes. I am not sure if anyone has ever told you, but your eyes are remarkably expressive.”

Aman knew his eyes were a powerful weapon as any. But never considered them particularly remarkable. Aman regarded the box of poems. He remembered then Kartik’s words to Devika when she had questioned what Kartik had intended to gift him on their half-year anniversary.

_Aman was the driving force behind every word,_ he had said _he was my muse. It is only fitting that the epic should be his._

Aman should have known, yet it still surprised him just how deeply Kartik’s love went. How it had become so deeply entrenched that it had bled into even his writing. No one had ever loved his quite so thoroughly.

“How is your own epic looking Uncle?”

“It seems to be never-ending,” said Chaman with a slight chuckle. “I _hope_ it is neverending, or at least that it will go on for a long time after my death.”

_It will end Uncle_ thought Aman. _On morrow’s dawn it will end and it will be all my doing._

“I never understood,” admitted Aman. “Why you would choose to write an epic for _us_.”

Chaman looked him in the eyes. “ _I’m_ not sure you realise what you have done by marrying Kartik. You not only saved the countries from bloodshed but you gave us so much more. Perhaps not everyone understands it, perhaps not even you understand it. But by loving someone we considered an enemy you showed us that there was another way out of the endless cycle of bloodshed. That there was a way for love and peace to prevail even when the world tells us that hatred, desecration and murder are inherent to human nature.” 

“The holy books have always preached” whispered Aman hastily. “About loving your enemies as you love your friends.”

“The books are wrong.” when Chaman said it, he said it with conviction. “You can never quite love your enemies as you love your friends. You can love your friends, your family with a love that is human. But an enemy, an enemy who has wronged you. It takes strength, it takes courage, it takes understanding and acceptance, and when you have all that, the love that you have for them no longer remains human it becomes sacred.”

Aman took in Chaman’s words. But he did not think of his own feelings for Kartik, at least not just yet. He thought of Kartik’s love for him. 

Through the last six months Aman had treated him with naught but cruelty, the promise of a sword hanging at his neck. Then when Kartik had offered him his heart, Aman had torn it to shreds at every turn.

And yet Kartik still found the strength to look past that. Found the courage to accept even his own death. He found it in himself understand Aman. He found it in himself to accept Aman for who he was. Sharp edges, messed up psyche, cruelty, and all.

Could Aman truly do that? Kill a man who saw him, every part of him, the beautiful and monstrous alike and yet still found him worthy enough of bestowing his heart and all his affection. Was Aman truly willing to lose that?

Chaman’s words also brought another perspective into factor. It was no longer just about the two them. Their relationship concerned whole nations, whole peoples. He would be going back on his oath to protect the nations by ripping away the light, the hope, the happiness and the love that Kartik carried in his very soul. 

He could not do this without Kartik. He knew that. He was the better king than Aman would ever be for he was the king who loved despite the scars on his back, despite the cruelty of the world and the people around him.

_I was selfish,_ Aman realised _To put my own vendetta before the lives of others._

Aman looked down at his feet shame welling up in him “What makes you say that _I_ love him?”

“You would not have let him keep Gabru if you did not love him. You would, would not have allowed him into our lives, you would not have gifted him so much jewelry, or laugh at his every stupid joke, or look after him in the past few days in little ways even if you are fighting,” Chaman smiled. “If that is not love I do not know what is..”

Chaman’s words sounded so eerily like Kartik’s when he was trying to convince Gabru that Aman did in fact care for him that he gave a start.

Aman was not sure how to answer him, not sure how to address the feelings that had started to well up in him so he kept quiet. Noticing Aman’s silence Chaman came forwards and placed his hands on Aman’s shoulders.

“Do not lose him, Aman,” Chaman advised putting a hand on his shoulder. “I lost your aunt to my own folly. I lost ten years with her because of my own idiocy. I want you to do better than me. Life leads us down many paths. Cherish the time you have with him.”

It was then that the long-desired realisation came but it was not like most realisations. There was no lightning flash of sudden understanding illuminating everything around him. Nothing of that sort. 

The realisation had been building for a long time. Like slow burn that had scorched through a silk hanging at a window, where beyond he had seen glimpses of the scenery that awaited on the other side. Yet but had never dared to cross the threshold. Not until the last remnants of the silk hanging had been singed away, not until the flame had died out, leaving the smell of smoke, and a scenery unobscured by silk, flame or ash.

The realisation had always been there, the scenery on the other side, but it was always obscured, always seemed too dangerous to cross. But it was safe to cross the threshold now. Safe to understand and revel in the realsiation.

And the realisation was this:

_I love him. I love him. I love him. I cannot hurt him. I cannot bear it. And even if this were not the case he does not deserve to die just because I cannot let go of my vengeance._

One would expect something to break inside of Aman. For a sudden burst of emotion to rush through him, leaving him aching. Nothing of that sort happened. The tension in his body. The one that had been building for ten years was seeping. He felt calm, he felt free, he felt alive.

He knew what he had to do now. But there was one more thing. One more thing he needed to atone for.

“Uncle”

“Yes, Aman?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said, when he said it he looked him in the eye as he had done ten years ago when he _had_ told him to leave. “Not now not ever. What I said all those years ago… I know we both like to pretend it never happened. But I was wrong. Beyond wrong to make you leave. I’m sorry.”

Chaman stood rooted on the spot, stunned. 

“You were a child,” said Chaman firmly. “You needed guidance I’m sorry I did not fight you. I’m sorry I could not be there for you, to have been the voice of reason.”

“Things would have been easier,” agreed Aman. “But Uncle, what you have done and said today. You...you have done so much. For me I…”

Aman knew not what to do next only that he no longer had the words to speak. So he had rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Chaman holding him fiercely. It was only when Chaman too embraced him, reminding him so much of his own father, that Aman allowed himself to weep, at long last.

~~~

Aman had spent a total of five minutes weeping in Chaman’s arms and when he left, he practically ran. There was seemed to be a newfound freedom in his step and a glimmer in his eyes that did not quite look like tears. Chaman stood rooted on the spot, long after he was gone, the feeling of Aman’s embrace, warm and true had not quite left him. 

It was in stark contrast to their embrace when the had met again at Chaman’s estate. 

_I don’t want you to leave._ He had said. 

Chaman did not want to leave either. He looked back at his trunk. The thought of packing, the thought of leaving and going back to his estate, going back to the old loneliness after six months of bliss seemed inconceivable. 

Though he may not have made it up with Champa, he had gotten used to spending time in the library with Keshav and Nasireh discussing history telling stories. He had gotten used to going through battle strategies with Rajni or teasing her about Kusum. He gotten used to Kusum and her love for songs, he knew her favourites by heart. He had gotten used to walking with Sunaina in the gardens and talking poetry with Kartik. He had gotten used to Aman too, though they rarely talked alone. 

He had gotten so used to having a family again. Gotten so used to the warmth and love that going back would felt like going to his death. 

Chaman turned away from his trunk and back to the door which Aman had neglected to close when he had run off. It was here that Chaman noticed a presence at his door that he had not expected.

His wife, his love, Champa Tripathi. 

She was looking at him once over as if assessing him. As if she were seeing him for the first time. Chaman was not sure what to say, not sure how to break the silence. It reminded him of the day they had quarrelled. 

He had been packing for his departure then too. 

“I heard everything,” she said finally. “Everything.”

Chaman did not what that meant for him. What it meant for them. He did not know what to say.

“Eavesdropping is a punishable crime,” reverting to his old defence mechanism of reciting laws. “Especially when it concerns persons of the royal family.”

Champa seemed to notice his falling back into the old habit, she smiled. It felt like the old when she knew he was nervous. She would also know how to ease his nerves. 

“And what if the person eavesdropping is also of the royal family?” she was humouring him.

“There was actually a case a little after the time of Aayush and Taharin where the spouse of…”

She walked up to him and kissed his cheek Chaman felt his body go still. He had not expected this. Not at all. Their last argument had been so bitter and rooted in anger that Chaman had been sure, beyond sure they would never make it up to each other.

But if Kartik and Aman’s marriage had taught them anything, that was that forgiveness and reconciliation were possible.

“I don’t want to hear about old cases,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to leave either, not now not ever.”

_Then leave me._ He had told her when they had fought those ten years ago. And she had. They both left.

“Champa I…” he paused. “Who will look after the country estate?”

“The housekeeper Anjali, I am sure she will do a fine job.”

“But the chickens…”

“To hell with your chickens. You may be a great diplomat Chaman but I am sure I can debate whatever excuses come out of your mouth. You are staying and that is final.”

“I did not think you would want me to stay,” he admitted. “What I did…”

“Is in the past and I think I can come to forgive you.” she looked up at him. “The fault was also mine.”

“No…”

“Yes, we were both at fault. It was not just you. We were no saints, neither of us. You were wrong to leave but I should have responded to your letters when you asked to come back. I should have done more to bring you back to court. I was so angry.”

“Champa-”

“It does not matter it is in the past. While your words cannot undo the damage of the past, I think what you said will help him heal. I never thought he…”  
  


She was weeping now her words becoming incoherent as they often did when she became emotional. 

“Do I need to get an interpreter?” he asked. The old joke rising to his tongue.

Through the tears Champa laughed, shaking her head. 

“No, no.” she smiled up at him and her smile she saw the woman he had fallen in love with. “You’re still the Chaman I married. I was wrong then. And you’re right. We lost so much time. I want you to stay with me.”

They had wronged each other and others, but there was more than enough time to make amends. If Chaman left now he would be doing them all a disservice.

Chaman walked forward and took her into his arms, holding her against him as he had done many years ago. Somehow, though time had changed them, their bodies still fit perfectly against each other. She still felt like home. 

“I won’t leave,” he said. “I promise.”

~~~

While the bath in the antechamber of the room he shared with Aman was not as opulent as the baths in Khorshid, Kartik liked it better than the ones in Chandan. For one it had a proper drainage system, which meant while servants _did_ have to carry the water into the room it _not_ have to be carried back out in buckets. 

One only had to unplug the hole at the bottom of the bath and all the water would be drained out through a system of pipes.

There was also a steady supply of water in a small cistern in the room, which meant that the servants only had to bring up water perhaps once a week, to fill it up. This ensured Kartik had complete privacy whenever he needed to bathe which was exactly what he needed today.

No servants would disturb him and for once he was glad that it was midsummer, for there were many hours until sunset. This meant there would be no Aman. As of late, the other king had been leaving at sunrise only to arrive at sunset. Kartik had no reason to believe today would be any different.

He had prepared the bath himself, heating the water over the fire and instilling it with the familiar soothing scent of frankincense and sandalwood. 

_This would be the last time I bathe._

It was an absurd thought for a dying man, but somehow not being able to enjoy this simple pleasure anymore made his heart ache. It also made him all the more determined to savour this moment while he could.

Kartik first took off his jewellery, his nose ring, his rings of office and his saapki bone necklace. He placed them on the vanity before turning towards the bath, undoing the lacings of his clothes. He let his angrakha fall to the floor, then his undershirt, his trousers and his kecchera. Leaving a trail of clothing in his wake. He had not the energy to pick them up, to even fold them or put them aside. He let them be. He would do it later.

Fully undressed, Kartik lowered himself into the bath letting the hot water seeping into his skin, smelling the familiar scent of frankincense and sandalwood filling his nose. 

His habit of taking baths to calm his nerves had stemmed from when he was only a child. Back then though it had been a form of enjoyment. 

Aged only three he had refused to be clean, so his mother had sat him down in her room and had shown him her scents. She would create stories, mystical landscapes for every one of them. She had told him that by placing the scents in his baths he would be transported to those lands. He only had to chose which one he liked best.

He had chosen the sandalwood and frankincense because the scenerely land she had painted in his mind was an old one. 

She painted an image of mist coiling, circling great ancient trees. The ruins of great castles littered under the roots, strangled with the bones and blood of a thousand armies. In the mists, there would be shadows, figures, no taller than children. _The Children of the Earth._ His mother had called them. _Protectors of the Wilderness._

He had chosen this scent over the others, for the story had seemed more powerful, more wild, more soothing than the others, the lands of milk and honey, or lands of lavender and rose petal rain. He supposed he always had a taste for the macabre.

Through the years it would be the smell he turned to when he needed to remind himself there was a part of him that no one else could reach. A part of him who, like the roots of the ancient forests, would not be tamed. Not by any king or their stone walls, not even if a thousand armies marched his way. 

When he was in this mystical land of his mother’s imagination, all bruises inflicted by his father, all the scars on his body, for a brief moment, would be burned clean. He was not ashamed of his scars but he liked to pretend that in those moments he lived in a time and space beyond his own. A time and space where Kartik Singh King of Akhtar did not exist. 

He leaned back against the sideboard of the bath, closing his eyes, slowly but surely he lowered himself further into the water until he was fully submerged. 

He liked to play a game with himself. A method to clear his mind, to help him forget. The best way to face death, he felt, was to go about it in a pragmatic manner.

Once submerged he would see how long he could stay underwater. How long he could keep his breath in. He supposed it had always been a habit of his, to court death in order to feel alive. 

He stayed until his lungs burned and fought for breath. Until he was sure he was on the verge of death, until he had no more thoughts in his mind. It was only then that he emerged, gasping for breath. The air always tasted sweeter then. 

It was only then that he finally let himself relax, eased himself truly. He felt the tension in his body reduce slowly, the knots in his muscles and in his minds unravel completely. 

The first thought he let enter his mind was strangely that of Aayush and Taharin. Taharin in particular. Did she know, before she killed Aayush, before she ended her own life, by throwing herself off the battlements, how her own story would be written, how the love she had shared with Aayush would be warped and twisted to excuse war and bloodshed?

_They will be remembered,_ he thought to himself with a smile. _At least I could give them that in my lifetime._

Looking down on the Three Hundred Year War, from the heavens she must have felt that her sacrifices had been for naught. 

And while Kartik Singh was not afraid to die, he often wondered what his own legacy would be. He would be remembered as the man who brought the tale of Aayush and Taharin light. He knew that for certain. But what of the rest? The rest of what he had achieved? 

Would it become warped and twisted like Aayush and Taharin’s tale? Or would it simply remain an imperceptible drop in the ocean, a small obscure story in the brilliant strange history and folklore of these nations?

Neither of these options sat right with him. They meant his life never had any true significance. 

_I have done enough._ He tried to tell himself. _I have done what no other ruler has achieved. I have brought peace and prosperity. I have united two warring kingdoms. Surely that would not go to waste._

He liked to think somehow, she and Aayush were proud of him and Aman. That somehow both of them were smiling down on them. But there was a fear in Kartik too. He thought of his dream again, the one where Devika had killed Aman. He feared that he too would share Taharin’s woe, and that his own sacrifice would bring about nothing. That somehow after his death the world would revert to its old bloodied ways and he would be powerless to prevent it.

_I came into this trusting Aman to look after our people. I still trust him. I must trust him._

It was here that he felt a spasm run through his body. He recognised it as the urge to weep. He drew his knees to his chest and placed his head in his hands. At first, he suppressed the urge to cry, as he often did. 

_Why?_ He asked himself. _Why suppress it? There is no one else here? None to judge my worth or my strength, based on my tears or lack thereof. There is no one but myself, my memories and my demons._

_Shed away the king,_ his mind urged _and let yourself be human. You have been strong for so long, take off the armour, let yourself feel, let yourself mourn._

So he did. He wept. He wept as he had never wept before. He let the salt of his tears mingle with the water and the scent of sandalwood and frankincense. He let every emotion he had ever felt course through. He let them take their toll on his body, let the sobs rack his lungs, let himself tremble. 

As he wept he thought about all the time he had wasted, the love had taken for granted, and the dreams he would never achieve. He thought of the years, lost to the opium, the willful ignorance of the love that Devika, Parvaaz, Nasireh and Qabid had held for him.

As he wept e thought also of love from another family. The Tripathi’s. It was a love he would never truly be able to appreciate. They had taken him in, a man who had wronged them and they had showered him with affection, and treated him as if he were one of their own. He could never thank them enough.

And finally Aman.

Even thinking of his name made Kartik feel as if someone had twisted barbs around his heart. 

_Let my heart be crippled,_ he had once told himself _let it be splayed open, let all my love for him bleed out, let it kill me. I do not care. I want to feel it all before I am gone._

_Was it worth it?_ He wondered. _Loving him?_

_It was._ A voice answer. _It was. Because you got to live, to feel something beautiful before you died and you got your wish. Even if you could never hold him, love him, worship him as you have always wanted. What you had was enough. It was worth it._

Yet he could not stop weeping. He did not want to. No one could hear him. No one would see him. He could let himself have this, this moment of vulnerability before he had to put on his armour again.

I was here in this moment, curled up in the water, shaking uncontrollably as he cried his eyes out, did he finally admit to himself that he was afraid. That he was terrified. Not of death itself. Never of death itself. He was afraid of the loss of life.

Yes. A part of him still rebelled, a part of him wanted to live. A part of him wanted to step up and fight Aman, to not let him go through with it. 

But he loved Aman too much to hurt him anymore and if him being alive hurt him, then he would rather be dead.

Kartik remembered a time when he had been callous about his own life when did not want to live. When he had tried all he could to greet death, but he was pulled back on the side of life every time by someone he loved. Now here he with a zeal for life but being to be pulled to the side of death by someone else he loved.

Through the tears, Kartik let out a laugh, raw and hollow at the irony of his situation. He laughed, because somehow, somewhere along the track he got better. 

He tried to remember how it had all changed. How he had found the will to live. Where it had come about.

He used to sit in the baths of Khorshid with a certain fear, a certain grief and a certain anxiety. He used to try and still his beating heart in a desperate ploy to regain a sense of calm and a sense of hope. Today the fear, grief and anxiety still remained but it was different because alongside them he also felt hope, lightness and love. Love most of all. It was the strongest it had been in a long while. 

He could not help but wonder how or when it came to be so. Then he realised. Perhaps he had always known.

It happened that night when he had wept under Okhine’s blind gaze. When a stranger had held his face into his hands, wiped away his tears and told him that all would be well. 

_I will not forget this...what you did for me_ he said told Aman _I will remember till my dying day. I vow it._

He thought of Sarai. The little girl from Kashatr, how Aman had been the only one there for her in her loneliness. The thought soothes him a little. His people would be safe in Aman’s hands. 

_I trust him._ He had told Devika once, and he still did, even now, when he was lost and in mourning. It is the thought of Aman from that night the comforts him again, for a second time. 

For the first time since the last seven days, Kartik was at peace and he knew when it eventually came down to it he would face his death with zeal. It was strange how Aman did not know his own power. Kartik would have to let him know, tell him at least once before he died.

With the water now cooled and his mind at peace, Kartik rose from the bath and drained the water. 

He took up a towel and dried himself, walking over to the main bedroom. Usually, when Aman was around, Kartik would be careful enough to cover himself after he bathed. But seeing that his husband would not be back until sunset Kartik had fallen back to his old habit of neglecting his clothes until absolutely necessary.

Kartik discarded the towel on the floor, reminding himself to pick it up later, he made his way to the vanity where the jewellery he had taken off before bathing was laid out. 

There was an old poem in Akhtar of a freedom fighter who was hanged. They knew not who this freedom fighter was, their name or even what they looked like. But their song had passed through many generations. A verse came to him now:

_He decked himself like a bride_

_On the day of wedded bliss_

_On the day of slaughter_

_He lived_

He had come to terms with his death, yet, he felt the same trepidation that he had felt the day before he married Aman. He knew he must face it with the same zeal he had then. He would be like the nameless freedom fighter, he would face death as if it were another marriage.

He took up the saapki bones necklace and placed it around his neck, it’s now familiar weight settling on his collarbone. He remembered having first received them. The feeling of awe, that the Eskabadi had gifted him and Aman something so sacred to their culture. He had felt he was wearing a myth around his neck.

When the had learned the real reason for the gift, he only felt more in awe, and more honoured by the fact that this decision to marry had cemented such an environment of safety and peace that the burned books could finally be unearthed. He still could not fathom all that had happened. He had so many questions to ask Queen Mihan of Eskabad. Now he never could. 

Next Kartik took up his nosering. It was not the one he had just taken off, silver and bared of all jewels. No. His hands found themselves going to the nose ring Aman had gifted him, the one he wore at their wedding. The gold one studded with three gleaming garnets. 

He had decided he would die wearing it. The first gift that Aman had given him. He then put on the arm-bands he had worn at the Khan Khardesh ceremony, gold, with a lion carved on it, a reminder of his Akhtari ancestry. Then the Kangan Sunaina had given him. He had after all wanted to be buried with it. He put on his ring of office, a silver lion with ruby eyes. A reminder that he will die as a king.

Finally, he picked up the most precious piece of jewellery he owned. His mother’s nath. Black with highlights of gold. He looped it through the nose ring before clipping the chain to his hair. 

He looked at himself in the mirror, bedecked in jewels, yet bare. All his life he had been told that he looked like his father and he had hated it. But today, today he saw visages of his mother, in the lips and in the eyes, accentuated by the nath. He was nothing like his father. He was himself. He was a king, yet he was still Kartik. 

He did not mind this being the last image of himself before he died.

Kartik turned away from his own visage. He had one more thing to do before he forgot. He went to the study and drew out a piece of parchment. If Aman would not listen to words. Perhaps he would heed the written word. So Kartik drew out a quill and wrote:

_Aman,_

_I only have two requests. The first is that you tell no one the truth. The second is that you change the damned curtains to some lighter material. I hope you will find it in yourself to heed one of these._

_There is one thing I would like to say. Something I would like you to know. No matter what you decide to do. I trust you. You have done so much. You do not know your power, you are there, like a godsend for those who think they have no hope._

_You were there for me. I told you I would not forget. Not until my dying day. I have kept my promises._

_Kartik_

He signed his name. Just his first name. Somehow his full name was too formal, held too much iciness and civility. 

As soon as he finished writing he heard footsteps approaching the door of his chambers. He heard a voice that was no doubt Aman’s. 

“We are not to be disturbed,” Aman told the guard outside. “It would be best if you are not here.”

Kartik heard the guards walk away. At first, he did not know what to do. The shock of Aman’s early arrival grounded him on the spot, paralysed his limbs. Why was he here? What was he going to do?

It was only when the door started to open did Kartik remember that he was completely naked save for the jewellery he wore. While the jewellery was beautiful in its own right, somehow Kartik did not think it was enough to distract Aman away from the rest of him.

The next few moments happened so fast that Kartik was not sure what occurred first. All he knew was that Aman had entered the room and he had to make a grab for the only thing available to hide his state of undress. The damned plum velvet curtains of the bed.

He held them with both hands covering the lower half of the body. He looked up at Aman hoping he had been fast enough.

Aman seemed to have frozen midstep. Kartik was not sure which of them was more mortified.

____________

Songs:

[Nothing Left to Say](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGv0ze0lHKA) (Imagine Dragons) - Aman POV

[History](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1Pmcy74Kfs) (1D) - General vibes

[I Don't Wanna Live Forever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7F37r50VUTQ) (Zayn Malik, Taylor Swift)- for bath scene

[Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yy1oGBjZbrA) (Shawn Mendes) - also for bath scene

[Pyaar Tenu Karda Gabru](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mX5WV60DSPk) (SMZS) - For Gabru 🥺

[Better Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wm4CrOfbHMI) (Hozier) - For Aman's realisation

[Halo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VqQeT7wKqvs) (Beyonce) - Also for Aman's realisation

[Battle Ships](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bj0MwP1_fw) (Daughtry) - Aman's realisation

[Take me to Church](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6A3PMQA5c74) (Hozier) - Kartik's bath scene

[Amsterdam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKtPXO5iEnA) (Imagine Dragons) - Aman

[Start Over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2SD2e0TDb4A) (Imagine Dragons)- Chaman Champa

[Twilight (jj lin)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3Yhv72mjvk) \- Bath Scene

[Scared of the Dark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVlFkFmk_NM) (Lil Wayne and Ty Dolla $ign) - Kartik Bath Scene but also lowkey Aman

[You and Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3ZTDkZ38IY) (James TW) - Aman's POV

[I Lived](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KINfQbfZwik) (One Republic) - Kartik Bath Scene

[Shots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndtQ6ReXO-s) (Imagine Dragons) - for Aman

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to check out the Gabru spin off 'He Loves You Gabru' 😌


	48. The Ripped Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sargun ruins curtains even more :) 
> 
> TW:  
> talk of past child abuse,  
> allusions past self-harm,  
> allusions to past suicidal thoughts,  
> semi-explicit sexual content.
> 
> ALSO
> 
> here's a little drinking game that you guys can play. Take a bottle of water, say whatever prayer you like over it hence turning it into holy water (you're gonna need it). Take a shot every time:
> 
> 1) curtains are mentioned  
> 2) one of them smiles  
> 3) Someone cries  
> 4) anytime they say/do/insinuate something nasty  
> 5) anytime they are interrupted  
> 6) Any time Aman has an inner monologue
> 
> Yes, I'm trying to keep you all hydrated. I know no one has been drinking water. It's the least I can do for all the love y'all have given me for the past few months :)
> 
> I hope it was worth the delay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mehan for letting give them a rough outline for this chapter all those months ago and then adding this one thing that made it infinitely better. You'll see what it is. Mehan has a ****** ******** kink. ALSO be sure to check out the next few chapters of 'Let's Rewrite Our History' when Mehan puts it up. Trust me ur gonna fucking love it.
> 
> Bigamy. That is all I will say.
> 
> Also thank you to Dhyan for putting up with my live updates every time I reached a certain point in this chapter. I'm sure your sick of ur WhatsApp constantly pinging over the past few days but I really appreciate the fact that you let me vent. 
> 
> I would also like to thank (because I don't think I thank them enough) Hrtika for being so wonderful. Legit anytime I feel down about my writing or like life, in general, I go back and read your comments as well as go through the memes on the meme page and look at all the beautiful art you have created. How am I so lucky to get such an awesome reader what the hell?
> 
> Also special thanks to my irls Mihindie and Sonia. Mihindie for being a lad and reading my shitty outline and praising it while also calling me a rat. And to Sonia for sending me that one meme about olive oil in Ancient Greece at that one opportune time. Both of you wanting to read this chapter despite not having properly read the whole really pushed me forward to write this.
> 
> Also thank you to everyone for waiting so patiently for this chapter. All your words of encouragement were so sweet. Honest to god I'm still in awe at the fact that you guys actually like this little thing I concocted all those months ago.
> 
> idk why Im thanking everyone I'm in a grateful mood i guess. 
> 
> take.
> 
> take now.
> 
> before i take it back.
> 
> this kinda sounds like a good bye haha 👀

The fires of all the world will burn us

Naught left but the ashes of our love

Still in the misty eyes of thousands untold

Lies our tale, as they look to the heavens above

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Everything he had wanted to say, everything single word that Aman practised in his mind, had died in his throat as soon as he had walked into his chambers. The funny thing was not all of it had to do with Kartik’s state of undress. No, there was far more to it. He was scared, beyond scared, he was terrified.

What if he had been wrong? What if they had hurt each other too much to move forward?

Kartik stood by the foot of the bed, a bashful, sheepish expression on his face. The plum curtain slightly bunched up in his hands were held before him, covering him from his hips down to midthigh leaving little else to the imagination. 

It was not as if Aman had not seen as much before. No they had been almost casual with their bodies, as much as modesty would allow. Yet _that_ had been months ago, before his drunken night in Khorshid, which prompted the phenomenon that was Kartik going to bed _with_ a shirt despite the warming up in the weather. 

A part of him missed the ease in which his eyes would roam over Kartik’s body, he missed the look of his scars, he missed the simplicity of their nights, hand in hand talking about meaningless things until Kartik fell asleep. He missed the comfort and trust that had become a part of their relationship despite everything.

It had been three months since Aman had seen a substantial amount of skin on Kartik’s end, and he supposed was what made his lack of clothing _now_ all the more shocking, spellbinding. Besides, there was something about the fact that there was only a curtain, a flimsy velvet curtain, that made the situation all the more...alluring. 

In his haste, Kartik had also neglected to cover his right side leaving most of his leg exposed. This was new territory for Aman and he found, almost against his will, that his gaze was being constantly drawn to it.

It was tempting, beyond tempting, to let his eyes slowly glide over Kartik. Taking everything in. But he could not do that, not for long, he did not think it would be respectful. Yet neither could he pretend the other king was not there. That would be too callous, cruel even, and he had not come here to be cruel. 

So, in the end, Aman had settled for Kartik’s eyes. 

While the jewellery and the lack of clothing may have fooled anyone else into thinking that Kartik was in a decadent, lavish almost conceited mood, it did not fool Aman the slightest. It never could. He knew Kartik too well for that. 

He saw through the incandescent glow of the precious jewels, he saw through it all and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was not conceit on Kartik’s part. No, far from it, the other man wore his jewellery like one would wear armour deflecting the prying gaze of others away from the insurmountable grief that lay in his beautiful dark eyes. 

Aman would have seen it, the desolation that lay heavy in him, even if Kartik had worn all the finest, largest jewels in all four nations, gleaming in the light of the high summer sun. That’s what had stopped the words from Aman’s lips and had splintered the last remnants of stone that had clung to his heart. How could he presume to lull the pain he had caused with mere words?

_Gods I had been stupid, stupid not to realise that I loved him. Stupid to let vengeance take over me. Stupid to have hurt him so._

Aman tried to regain his composure to say something, anything to cut the tension between them. His mind, however, decided it was a convenient time to draw a blank. 

Kartik had the sense to break the silence. 

“You could have at least knocked.” his words were awkwardly said, as he drew the velvet curtain closer to his body, turning his eyes away from Aman. In the light of the late afternoon sun, Aman saw the colour rise in his cheeks. 

“It’s my room too,” replied Aman steadily. “I didn’t think I’d have to.”

Kartik still did not meet his eye. He did not respond. Aman decided it would probably be best if he gave him time to put his clothes on. 

He turned towards the study table where various notes and parchments lay strewn.

Aman started to unlace his angrakha shrugging it off, leaving him in just his undershirt and trousers. He laid it out on the table before sitting on one of the chairs taking off his shoes, hoping Kartik understood.

Aman was not leaving, not for a while yet. 

He leaned back in what he hoped was a casual manner, trying his best to not look at Kartik, hoping the other man would take the opportunity to clothe himself. 

“Aman?”

Aman turned to him again. Kartik had not moved from his spot. He was still unclothed, the curtain still dangerously low. Aman found himself turning red. It was always going to be hard, telling Kartik how he felt, but the other man was not making it any easier.

“Yes?” Aman answered.

“There are scratches on your cheek, are you-”

“I’m fine” he replied curtly. He did not offer an explanation.

He did not want to tell them they were from rose bushes. He did not want Kartik to know he had been in the gardens.

Kartik did not seem convinced but he also did not question him further. Aman wished he would. He wished that he would shout at him, curse him for being reckless, berate him. Anything other than this damned silence.

Kartik took in a deep breath as if preparing himself to make a big announcement. 

“There’s a note...on the study…it…it contains my last wishes.”

Aman was not sure if he could bear reading it. He could already feel his heart breaking at the sight of Kartik standing before him devoid of all his infectious energy, his exuberance. Everything that made him Kartik Singh. 

He wanted to refuse, he wanted to get up and tell him everything but he had not the words and Kartik was looking at him expectantly. 

Aman turned his attention to the piece of parchment that lay at the centre of the study, with Kartik’s large, uneven, flourishing handwriting scrawled hurriedly across it. Even his hand had become familiar, Aman could recognise it anywhere.

He could not help but think back to the first letter that Kartik had sent to him all those months ago, beseeching him to meet in Kashatr to discuss terms of peace and perhaps an alliance. It was always as if Aman had held the higher ground in their relationship when he did not. He never had.

Aman slid the note closer to him, feeling Kartik’s eyes burn through him as he read. 

_Aman,_

_I only have two requests. The first is that you tell no one the truth. The second is that you change the damned curtains to some lighter material. I hope you will find it in yourself to heed one of these._

_There is one thing I would like to say. Something I would like you to know. No matter what you decide to do. I trust you. You have done so much. You do not know your power, you are there, like a godsend for those who think they have no hope._

_You were there for me. I told you I would not forget. Not until my dying day. I have kept my promises._

_Kartik_

Aman felt his breath catch in his throat. The last lines did not fully register. If he let them register he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that something inside him would shatter. The very foundations of himself would crumble like fine dust in the hand of a child. He was not ready for that to happen. Not yet. He focused his mind instead on Kartik’s requests. 

The first would be easy enough to honour. He would not have to lie, not now that he did not have to kill him. The second request, however...

Aman looked up the curtain that Kartik held aloft, covering him from hips to mid-thigh. Aman was not sure whether he should be glad that he had not changed the curtains to a lighter material earlier in the summer or disappointed that he had let them be. He found himself smiling.

“Are you sure about the curtains?” he asked.

“Absolutely positive,” answered Kartik with complete sincerity. 

For the first time, they found the courage to look into each other’s eyes. Neither of them could suppress their amusement and the embarrassment of the situation. The burst out laughing. 

There it was again that beautiful smile, the sound of Kartik’s voice ringing through the hollows of the room-filling them with warmth. His unkempt beard and his hair were still slightly damp from his bath and they gleamed in the sunlight, like ash lined with gold. He was captivating, bewitching and he was the man Aman loved. He never wanted to see him die. Never. Not if he could help it. 

He had to tell him that. He had to tell him now. 

“Kartik…” he let out.

But he found once again he could not speak. How does one even begin?

Kartik’s smile was still slightly fixed on his face, but his expression was slowly turning more focused. He waited expectantly for Aman to say something. Anything. As the seconds passed Aman’s eyes found themselves moving from Kartik’s eyes to his lips. Further down to the lines of his neck and his collarbone where the saapki bone necklace lay. 

Looking down any further would be likened to a sin in Aman’s mind, illicit, clandestine, yet somehow irresistible.

_Don’t_ he willed _dont look down. Don’t-_

Unfortunately, his eyes would not obey. His gaze fixed themselves on the expanse of Kartik’s torso. But it was not the beauty of his form that he admired, not wholly, not truly, not yet, even though the thought stuck out on the edge of his mind. No, his eyes fell on his scars. Gods there were so many of them.

_Not all scars are from battles._

He swallowed.

“What is it?” asked Kartik. 

Aman looked up into his eyes. Embarrassed to be caught in the act of staring. 

“I want to...where did you get your scars?” he blurted out. “You said not all were from battle, you said so on our wedding night.”

It was a stupid question. One he should never have asked but he had not been sure what else to say. 

Kartik stood still as if considering his question, considering whether he should say anything at all. In the end, he gave a half shrug. As if he couldn’t care less whether Aman knew or not. After all, in his head, he was still dying tomorrow. 

_You’re not going to die._ Aman wanted to tell him. _You’re the hero of this tale. Our tale. You’re my hero. And if you die, then what was the point of our story?_

“Which scar would you like to to know about?” Kartik’s words came out as a whisper.

It was an invitation to look, to ask. It was not how Aman had imagined this conversation to go, but it was better than the silence of the last seven days. So he went along. 

“The one there,” said Aman. “On your external oblique.”

“Could you say that again in either Akhtari, Mahanite or Balkari.” Kartik smiled. “I do not speak your physician’s tongue.”

Aman placed a finger on his own ribcage to demonstrate “On the right side of your body. The three little marks”

Kartik looked down to the side and his smile twisted into something that was half ironic and half pained. 

“That was from my father. The first time he hit me after my mother died. I tried to give him a rose, a white one, my mother’s favourite. They don’t usually grow in winter. But that one did. I thought that it… actually never mind that. The scars are from the thorns of the rose I had given him. They only remained because I spent too long in the stables and it got infected. Qabid treated the wound eventually.”

“Your father did this?”

“There’s no point in asking anymore,” the muscles in Kartik’s body tighten as he said the words, his voice was filled with venom. “Most of these are from him.”

Aman looked at the motley of scars that riddled Kartik’s body, not all of them looked like they were from rose thorns. The others looked like scars you would get from fighting countless battles. The looked like sword strokes and axe falls. They became all the more horrific now that he knew exactly who caused them. And to leave such ghastly marks on one’s own son…

Aman imagined Kartik, a child sitting in the stables, weeping, bloodied and bruised. He understood now why he treated Qabid like a father, he understood he exactly what he meant to him.

“You’re probably wondering why they are so terrible,” said Kartik as if reading his thoughts. “Do you want to know?”

Aman was not sure how to answer him but Kartik kept speaking anyway.

“My father got tired one day of beating the living shit out of me. I supposed it no longer excited him. One day, when he wasn’t dead drunk or fucking one of his many mistresses, I was practising my martial skills with the master of arms. He came to observe. In the end, he claimed the master at arms techniques were making me soft,” Kartik looked down at his scars. “Most of these come from him, he made me use real swords, I wasn’t supposed to not as a ten-year-old. Every time he thought I would make a mistake he would cut me.”

“Did no one stop him?”

“He was _the King_ ,” Kartik spat the word. “It was only when Parmesh came back from fighting at the border did it stop. He was the only one that had the guts to stand up to my father and he took over my lessons. I cannot thank him enough.”

“If your father were alive today I…”

“You’d what? Kill him?” Kartik sighed. “I know you’re seething. Any decent human would be angry at what he did. But...you don’t have the right not truly. You don’t have the right to say you would have killed him. While I appreciate the sentiment, while I understand what do you think that’s going to do for me? No one saved me then. You can’t be my saviour now. What are you hoping to achieve?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t right,” said Aman weakly. “You were a child.”

“It’s easy for you as an outsider to sit there and say ‘how horrible how terrible.’” said Kartik. “But you will never understand the pain of it. You will never understand what it’s like to acknowledge that your tormentor was also the man you looked up to. And yet somehow he was still the man who gave me so much no one can take away the father of my childhood or those happy memories, not even him. I’ve made peace with it as well as I can.”

Aman hung his head low. It seemed as if he was saying all the wrong things at the wrong time. His heart rested in his chest, as heavy as stone. 

“There are,” continued Kartik softly. “Some scars that I cherish.”

Aman looked up “Which ones?”

Kartik smiled, he let a little of the curtain fall further from his right side to reveal a mark at his hip.

While he seemed completely comfortable with showing more of his skin, Aman found himself turning red at sight. Any more and he was sure he would not be able to think properly. 

“I got this one, learning Ghor-Sivar with Parmesh. Nasireh and I were finally able to use real spears, unfortunately, their aim was _too_ good and managed to pierce through the gap in the armour.”

Aman winced at the thought of having Nasireh’s powerful arms thrust a spear through his hip. He was surprised Kartik’s leg hadn’t completely shattered. Kartik replaced the curtain to its original position a little more securely this time. 

“There’s also one, at the back of my head, you can’t see it because of my hair, but I got it when I fell onto a pile of bricks after Devika, Nasireh and I stole from the palace kitchens. I needed to get stitches.” then Kartik transferred the curtain to one hand, in order to gesture a more recent scar, at his chest, he grinned. “I got this trying to save an idiotic reckless stubborn mule of a king, who decided he would rather race into a forest, unguarded and unarmoured than stay with the royal escort.”

Aman’s voice caught in his throat as he said “I remember”

The words _I did it because I wanted to see you smile_ were at his lips but he did not know if it was the right thing to say. 

_He saved my life twice, once on the rooftops of Chandan, and once in Lover’s Glade and I almost repaid all that with death._

Aman’s eyes went from the scar at his chest to the one at his left shoulder. The one that Aman had helped heal for the past six months. The one Kartik had not spoken of. The one that hung like a shadow between them. The one neither were willing to acknowledge. But it was something they _had_ to talk about if they were going to move forward from here. What was it that his mother said to him a few days ago?

_Talk to him, Aman. Do not let, whatever it is, fester._

If Kartik was not willing to speak of it, Aman would take the first steps.

“And what about that one?” asked Aman his eyes resting firmly on Kartik’s old battle wound. “You have not spoken of it.”

“Which one?”

It was a lie. Kartik knew exactly which one he was referring, they both knew. The despair in his eyes turned to fear, he seemed cornered. Aman remembered once when Kartik was drunk, all those months ago in Kashatr. He had been ready to tell Aman everything about Shankar and how he died. He stood in stark contrast now. Evasive, closed off unwilling to speak.

Aman rose from his chair. 

Keeping his eyes firmly on Kartik he walked towards him, slowly carefully but with purpose. With every step, Kartik seemed to still. Aman walked until only inches separated them, he walked until he could feel the heat from Kartik’s body until he could smell the sandalwood and frankincense. He touched the scar on Kartik’s shoulder, lightly, visible front and back for Shankar’s sword had gone clean through. 

His skin was warm, slightly damp from the bath. Aman ran a finger down it, taking in the sensation of the scar, breathing in his scent. 

“This scar.”

Kartik’s eyes met Aman’s, a sheen of tears lining his eyes. They were like Noor’s own, burning like fire, ready to spill over at any moment and melt any ice that remained in Aman’s heart. He seemed to be pleading with him to ask no further. 

_No_ he realised _if it came down to it I would never have been able to kill him. Vengeance was never the way the right path. I was a fool. And now I have hurt him again._

With this realisation also came another, one that wounded his own pride, stuck a dagger in it, twisted it until all Aman could feel was an excruciating ache. The last ten years of his life had been a complete and utter waste. He had wasted half his life on a godforsaken goal that he never had hope of achieving, a goal he had no right to claim. Not anymore.

But it would not matter it would all be better, it would all be worth it if he could just tell Kartik. 

His fingers were still on the scar that his own father, Shankar, had inflicted upon Kartik. The wound that had brought so much destruction.

“My father and your father both then,” Aman whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He watched as the sheen of tears grew until Kartik’s eyes could no longer bear their burden. They spilled over. And as they fell Aman’s own heart fell with them, it smouldered and blazed until there was naught left but ash. He could not bear to see Kartik weep. He never had been able to.

“You shouldn’t have to be sorry,” Kartik choked out. “You did nothing wrong…” 

But Aman did not want to hear Kartik justify a vengeance he had long let go of. He wanted Kartik to know. He wanted Kartik to understand that he loved him. Aman’s words were failing him, he supposed actions would have to serve. 

A hand still on Kartik’s shoulder, Aman placed his other hand on Kartik’s cheek, wiping away tears. Slowly. It reminded him of how they first met, he had wiped away his tears then too.

Then he kissed him.

Kissed him as he had never done before. With fervour, with passion with force. A force that sent Kartik off balance, a force that sent him tumbling backwards onto the bed, Aman with him. Aman barely registered the sickening rip of the curtain as he fell on top of Kartik. Somehow their lips remained attached. 

For a moment, a brief pleasant heavenly moment he could feel Kartik kiss him back. But the moment was brief. 

His lips ceased as if deadened as if they were being slowly leached of life.

Kartik pushed Aman off. 

He stood up straighter, chest heaving, his eyes roaring with indignation, features twisted in anger. And the tears were still there, as bright as the jewellery he wore. 

“Is this some sort of consolation prize?” he hissed. “One last fuck? One last bit of pleasure before I leave this world? Thank you for your generosity _Your Majesty_ but I don’t want it.”

Kartik might as well have punched him in the gut. He had never called him that before, _Your Majesty_ , not even in jest. There had been no question about it. They were equals in every aspect. But in Kartik’s eyes, it seemed as if Aman held all the threads of power. As if Aman was the master, the puppeteer. 

And why would Kartik think otherwise? Even Aman had to admit his actions until now had been nothing short of cruel. He had never given Kartik any reason to think he truly cared for him. He felt vile. Vile for his presumptions, vile for making Kartik feel like an inferior. Vile for violating him. He had wounded his pride through his kiss. He had to make amends. He had to force himself to speak. Force some sort of explanation out of his mouth no matter how terrible it sounded.

“I did not mean it like that,” he started.

“Really?” Kartik’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve won Aman. There’s no point in rubbing it in. You know it still hurts underneath my scars, but this. This hurt more. I thought you had more honour than that.”

“I need you to listen to me!” Aman’s plea cut through Kartik’s rising anger. “Please.”

Kartik studied him as if trying to determine what he was going to do, what he was going to say. Eventually, he nodded. 

“I’m listening.”

Aman took in a deep breath, frustrated. He mind could not form his emotions into words, he could not speak it.

“I don’t know how to say it,” he said truthfully.

Something softened in Kartik’s expression then. 

“Take all the time you need,” he assured. 

Aman sat on the bed with Kartik for the next five minutes in utter silence trying to form the words. He did not look at Kartik, instead, his eyes focused on the folds of the curtain that lay tangled between both their legs. Miraculously Kartik had not lost the final shred of his dignity during their fall. 

He allowed his mind to marvel at the richness of the fabric, he allowed himself to finger the ripped edge of the curtain. He allowed his mind to relax.

When the words finally came to him they flowed, like the Godsblade on a warm spring night. 

“I wasted my life. I made you my enemy in such a way I no longer remained myself. I was no longer Aman Tripathi. And for ten years I turned myself into a weapon rather than a man. All for naught.”

He met Kartik’s eye. The other man seemed taken aback by his words but Aman continued. 

“I always thought that if I took your life in exchange for my father’s all would be well. But it won’t be, it never will. I know that now. It would make everything worse. I don’t know how you did it. I don’t know why either. I don’t know what you saw in me truly. But despite everything, my idiocy my cruelty you found it in yourself to still see me as worthy of your love.” Aman paused. 

He could see that Kartik wanted to speak, to object, to tell him exactly what he had seen in him. But Aman did not want to hear it. Not yet. 

“Somehow you came into my world, a world so grey and bleak and filled with ice. Like Noor, you came and burned through it all. You melted the ice and showed me spring. You were Phulantari, my Gulnaziri all in one.”

“Aman…”

“No, listen.” he insisted. “You showed me colours that I would never have seen with anyone else. Yet it happened so slowly that I didn’t realise it, until now. You’re the reason why my family is together again. You’re the reason why Chacha and Chachi are talking again. The reason why my mother’s smile reaches her eyes. I was so self-centred so caught up in my own pain I did not see theirs, I did not see the pain that I would be putting the whole two nations through. The pain I put you through...” he looked up at Kartik tears welling in his eyes, obscuring his vision. “I was blind. I have been blind. Because it was there the night at the temple. It has been there ever since. But I could not see it.”

Kartik furrowed his brows “What are you-”

But he stopped short as she saw that tears were slipping down Aman’s cheeks. 

“Why do you weep?” Kartik whispered. 

Aman found it in himself to smile. Those had been his own words, the first words he had spoken to Kartik under the statue of Okhine. 

“I weep because love you,” he whispered. “I love you Kartik. I always have. I realised too late. And I paid the price for it with your tears. I could tell my mind all I liked that you were the enemy. But how could I make my heart understand? Forgive me Kartik, forgive me.”

Kartik watched him, stared, stunned to silence. But Aman continued.

“I think,” he whispered. “I think if I gave you everything I had you would treat it with kindness.”

He could no longer see in front of him. His own tears had robbed him of his vision. All he could feel next was Kartik hands at his cheeks, wiping away his tears. But the tears could not be quelled, they kept falling. The next thing he knew was that Kartik’s hand were in his hair and that he was being gently pulled towards him. Kartik cradled Aman’s face in the crook of his neck, before wrapping his arms around him. 

Aman breathed him in, his familiar scent, embracing him back, feeling his skin against his own. It felt like coming home.

He could feel Kartik’s tears seep into his undershirt. They sat together for a few more minutes entwined in each other’s arms, holding each other as time went by, letting the tears run their course.

In the end, Kartik pulled away slightly, he was still embracing Aman but now he rested their foreheads together. Through his tears, Aman could see that he was smiling. It was a brilliant smile, one that even the late afternoon sun could not dare rival for its sheer brilliance.

“So I am not dying?” Kartik asked.

Aman found himself laughing “No. Gods no, not after all that we’ve gone through. If you think otherwise you are a fool.”

Kartik had that damned shit-eating grin on face, the one that told him he was either going to do or say something endearingly stupid. 

“I am your fool though am I not?

“Yes,” he did not have the heart to tell Kartik that his words were too cliche. “Yes Kartik you’re my fool”

Kartik looked down at Aman’s lips, thumbing the lower one gently before leaning forward. Aman met him halfway as he knew he would for the rest of their lives. 

This time, their kiss was not as passionate or forceful as their last one, it was soft with all the freedom of a songbird on the wing. It was free. Free from vengeance, from the restrictions they had placed upon themselves. The restrictions Aman had placed upon them. He found himself deepening the kiss, found himself relaxing into it, his body moulding itself to fit the lines and curves of Kartik’s own.

There was a flutter in his stomach at the feeling of his lover’s lips shifting slightly against his before the kiss turned more vigorous. Kartik leaned back, laying back down on the linen sheets, pulling Aman towards him so that he was on top again. 

This granted him the opportunity to unlace Aman’s undershirt with more ease. When it was completely undone hanging loosely by Aman’s sides Kartik smiled, breaking the kiss taking him in. Aman found himself doing the same in turn, observing the sheets slightly mussed around Kartik, his hair dishevelled, the curtain practically forgotten between them, though Aman dared not look down. Not yet.

Kartik’s hand moved from Aman’s hair down his neck, his chest finally resting at his ribcage.

“The external oblique,” he stated. “As you call it on your physician’s tongue.”

“You’re learning fast,” Aman remarked.

“I would like to learn more,” Kartik’s eyes met his, his expression mischievous. “If you’d let me.”

Aman felt a nervous flutter course through, something akin to bashfulness, excitement and an intoxicating pull of rapture. 

Aman remembered thinking on the morning of his wedding, how he would never truly experience love. He would never know what it was like to experience the childish tension of a bridegroom, marrying for the one they loved. Suddenly an idea struck him.

He took Kartik’s hand, the one the rested at his ribcage and extricated himself from his hold somehow managing not to disturb the ripped curtain too much. 

“Sorry,” said Kartik. “I don’t ever want to pressure you into…”

Aman did not hear the rest held on to Kartik’s hand firmly. He stood up from the bed, walking until he was directly in front of Kartik. 

When Kartik met his eye Aman fell to one knee in front of him before kissing his hand. The Akhtari gesture for honour and love. He looked up, smiling, resting his chin on the other king's knee, letting his eyes take in Kartik’s adorably confused expression.

“Marry me,” Aman said, his voice as clear as glass and just as sharp.

Kartik’s eyes gleamed with amusement, he let out a chuckle, jokingly pressing the back of his hand against Aman’s forehead. 

“Do you have a fever?”

“No,” Aman grinned.

“You have either gotten drunk again or you’ve lost your mind. We’re already married. Big wedding, huge event, midwinter, many people. Surely you could not have forgotten.”

“When we married, we did it for the people, not for ourselves.” he tilted his head slightly so that his lower lip brushed against his lover’s knee. “I want to marry again. I want to be selfish. I want to do it for us, not for anyone else. Just us.”

“The temples are not yet-”

“We don’t need a temple.”

Kartik glanced at the antechamber of their rooms where Noor’s statue was held. 

“I’m not dressed,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be sacrilegious?”

“How could it be sacrilegious? Everything about you is sacred to me, I’m sure Noor will understand.”

“But I thought you Mahanite only married once in a lifetime,” said Kartik. “Is it bigamy if you marry the same person twice?” he seemed completely serious in his question.

“You should ask Chaman Chacha,” said Aman. “He knows laws better than either of us. But I don’t care, even if it is a sin.” 

“Devika was right.”

“About what?”

“You are capricious.”

Aman squeezed his fingers. “Do you agree then?”

“Yes,” Kartik smiled. “On two conditions.”

“What?”

“We’re wearing the jewellery we wore at our first wedding and...” Kartik leaned forward and placed a finger on Aman’s open shirt. “...this needs to go.”

“Why?”

“You said we were allowed to be selfish. I’m being selfish. Besides I’m not facing Noor’s ire alone in this.”

Aman rolled his eyes but stood up and shrugged off the offending garment “Happy now.”

Kartik’s eyes roamed over him in a way that made Aman feel vulnerable yet cherished. He expected words of praise but all Kartik said was:

“Jewellery.”

“There’s no pleasing you is there?”

Kartik’s grin was wicked “Don’t be so sure. I find this very pleasing.”

Aman went to the vanity and put on the earring, the delicate silver and sapphire one that Kartik had gifted him, it had come to be one of his favourites. He was already wearing his saapki bone necklace so he took up the arm-bands from the Khan Khardesh, silver with an eagle carved onto them, fitting perfectly. 

Finally, took up the Bloody Necklace and the Cold Dagger. Heralds of war now turned symbols of peace and love. He placed the necklace at his chest before turning to Kartik. By now his lover was fastening the curtain more securely around his waist. 

When he was done he looked up at Aman. His eyes sparkled, biting his lips as if to reign in his desire. Aman used this moment to walk to him and loop the belted Cold Dagger around his waist.

When he stepped back, for the first time he allowed himself to look, to truly look at Kartik without any constraints or restrictions. He never wanted to forget it, this particular moment. He looked like a hero from the ancient legends, gleaming in the light of the evening sun. He looked like the kind of man you would gladly write a thousand songs, a thousand litanies for and then sing them from dusk till dawn.

“Are you ready?” Aman asked. 

“I’m ready when you are.”

Together they turned to face the antechamber, the little room dedicated to Noor the deity of light, rebirth, sun and moon. And in a way it was fitting, this was a new beginning for them. Another rebirth. 

_Our love has been blessed_ Aman thought to himself. _Every stage of our life had been overseen by one of the gods. Our first meeting Okhine gazed down on us. When we announced our marriage, Shamsheer was there. And finally now, Noor._

Suddenly Aman felt his heart quiver in his chest. 

“Scared?” Kartik asked seemingly able to read Aman’s thoughts.

Aman smiled remembering how he had asked Kartik the very same question just before they had entered the temple.

“Shit scared,” he admitted.

Kartik slipped a hand through his squeezing it reassuringly, then proceeded to bury his face in his neck. 

“We’re just here to fulfil a selfish fanciful desire for the hell of it. It’s not like anyone else is watching. This for us remember.” Kartik turned to the statue of Noor. “We’ll do the phera’s first, just like we did back then. Then the vows.”

“You go first,” Aman urged the nervousness still unwilling to leave him.

“You know the words of the song better than I, surely you have been to countless Mahanite weddings.”

“Yes, but it would be funnier to see you fuck up.” 

Kartik placed a final kiss at Aman’s shoulder before straightening himself. He closed his eyes for a moment before he started walking forward into the inner sanctuary leading Aman behind him. In his sweet voice, a voice that sounded as sweet as sugar and with all the power of a storm Kartik sang.

_The world may see us as two_

_In truth, we are one_

_Not even the gods above_

_Could tear us apart_

_We eat and drink together_

_We will live and die together_

_For now, and forevermore_

The words were in a mixture of Mahanite and Akhtari. Aman took in the lines of Kartik’s back as they walked. When they had married first, he remembered the gold lion embroidered onto his red sherwani, glittering on his back. 

A symbol of Akhtar. But not today. Today there was no finery adorning his back, today he was just a man. Today they were not marrying as two kings. But as two men who loved each other.

Kartik looked back at Aman as he sang. There was such adoration in his eyes that Aman felt himself melt. The biting remark about how Kartik had botched the traditional Mahanite wedding song remained at his tongue. Afterall this marriage was not traditional and Aman much preferred Kartik’s words to the original, for they spoke of eternity, a life that Aman had not imagined for either of them. Yet here they were, eternity ahead of them. 

_This friendship will never be broken, till my very last breath_

_I will not leave your side_

These were the words that he knew. They were from the traditional song, the third oath. Aman sang them with him then. That is what they were, behind the lovers, behind the kings. They were friends above all else. 

The first round ended Kartik continued.

_Your victory is my victory_

_You defeat is my defeat_

_Listen to me my love_

_For your sadness is my sadness_

_You are mine and I am yours_

_Such is our love_

_For you I will stand on the edge_

_and play games with death_

_For you I would take on the world_

His words spoke of unity. A thought passed through Aman _We were made as mirrors._ Ever since they’re first meeting they had mirrored each other, their hopes their fears their victories and defeats had been one even if they had seen each other as the enemies.

_This friendship will never be broken, till my very last breath_

_I will not leave your side_

They completed the second round and Kartik slowed his gait for Aman to take the lead. Aman was unsure of how to start. He did not want to repeat the Mahanite song word for word. He was never very good at poetry, he did not read it often and he could not compose it. But somehow as soon as he opened his mouth the words came with ease, they slipped from his tongue like water from a cliff, wild and wholly his. He set them to the tune of the Mahanite marriage song. 

_Should I change my name_

_Or should I hide yours_

_Or should I forget all I know_

_And become a hermit_

_I have only one task and that is_

_To love, to love, to love_

_Our love is red, it is flawed_

_Our love is anguished_

_But it is ours_

He could not disregard the pain they had caused each other, neither could he forget the enmity. That was what made their love so beautiful. The fact that they took the three hundred years of bloodshed and enmity and turned it into a marriage.

_My heart and soul are in your hands_

_I know you will not break them_

He ended the verse with the traditional Mahanite lines from the last oath. He was giving Kartik his soul, and he trusted him with it.

_Should I seize this black night_

_Should I grab this cold moon_

_The difference between us_

_Is like that of night and day_

_Yet we stand tall in the dawn_

_In the dusk, the twilight_

_Our love is blue, it is bright_

_Our love is beautiful_

_And it is ours_

Once, long ago Aman would never have imagined loving the man who killed his father. And now he hoped this love would never wither and die. He hoped that it would be eternal. Their respective sun and moon, in balance equilibrium, perpetual twilight. 

_My heart and soul are in your hands_

_I know you will not break them_

They let the last of their words echo through the chamber. Aman turned back to Kartik. He was beaming, his eyes soft. They did not say anything to each other, they did not have to they knelt, Noor as their witness. No priest no cloth between them to represent the banner fo their new nations. It was just them. 

Kartik’s hand reached out and stroked Aman’s beard. It reminded Aman so much of their first meeting that he could not help but let out a stifled laugh.

“What is it?” asked Kartik his lips curling with amusement.

“Hello, Amitabh.” 

“Chandravadhan” came Kartik’s reply with complete seriousness.

In a matter of seconds, the two of them started laughing in earnest, cocooned in the memory of their first meeting and their ridiculous aliases.

“Truly,” said Kartik. “You could not think of a better alias?”

“I couldn’t think at all at that moment,” admitted Aman. “The fact that I did not reveal my true identity was a miracle in itself.”

“Too distracted by my good looks?”

“As if you weren’t distracted by mine.”

Kartik grinned “Shall we start then the vows?”

  
  
Aman did not need to be told twice.

“Before the presence of Noor, I vow that I will give you comfort, cherish you and support you in sickness and in health if the worst comes to worst.” he smiled. “I vow to let Gabru in our rooms and even in our bed if need be.” He had a lot to thank for Gabru after all. “I vow to always beat you in armed combat, even when you’re cheating as you did all those months ago in Chandan.”

Kartik let out another laugh. It made Aman smile. He continued.

“I vow above all else to respect, trust, and love you above all others.” he looked into Kartik’s eyes. “ _Alif wallah_.”

It was Balkari, a mixture of Mahanite and Akhtari so entwined Aman could not tell which word had belonged to which language initially. It meant: _I swear it, a thousand times._

“And I swear,” said Kartik. “That I will treat you as my equal, that I will be here by your side no matter what the world will do to us.” then he grinned. “Since you’re hopeless at doing your own kalgi I vow I will manage that aspect of kingship for both of us. I also vow to firmly protest that any cheating in armed combat on my part.”

Aman rolled his eyes but his fingers tightened around Kartik’s.

“And finally,” he continued. “I vow too to love, respect and trust you with all I have. _Alif Wallah._ ”

For a moment they knelt, the vows echoing in each other’s ears.

The act of sealing their vows with a kiss happened unconsciously, Aman did not know he was doing it until his lips had met Kartik’s. It was like their very first kiss, at their wedding. Featherlight, brief and left him wanting more.

When they had pulled away Aman looked up to the window of Noor’s chamber, the hazy orange glow marking the sun’s demise. They were married, once again this time in the sun’s last glory rather than its first. In the dusk of his new world, Aman felt like a god.

“Faneel’s prophecy,” he murmured. “Two kings marrying under the light of a dying sun was that not what he said?”

“Two kings, hand in hand, taking their vows in the light of the dying sun.” Quoted Kartik. “Now all we need is Saapki to emerge from the snow. And what of the other prophecy? The one from the Southern Isles?”

Aman recalled it: 

_The dark star falls when two kings wed_

_In their wake comes the glass mosaic_

_Shattered songs forged in blood do not break_

_In the light of their shadow_

_When the time comes to three_

_The viper king will rise from his watery grave_

_He will become the ruler of two lands_

“Do you think it’s real?” asked Aman. “Not just the prophecies but magic? Do you truly think it exists?”

“When I look into your eyes I certainly believe it.”

Usually when Kartik said something like this Aman would have some intelligent quip on his mouth. But this time it seemed his mouth was too preoccupied with Kartik’s own for him to care.

He clasped Kartik’s his shoulders bringing him in closer. But it seemed he must have been too reckless, Kartik wince against their kiss pulling away momentarily. He attempted to kiss Aman again, in what seemed to be an effort to make him forget about his shoulder. But Aman would not be fooled, he remembered keenly that Kartik had not allowed him to administer salves for him for the past week.

Kartik was more than capable of doing them himself, but in the end, he was no physician and was more susceptible to inflicting damage on himself. 

“You shoulder,” said Aman. “Let me take a look at it.”

“Fuck my shoulder,” said Kartik, his voice desperately trying to convince Aman he was alright, that he was not in pain. “I need your touch.”

“I promised Qabid.”

“You really know how to kill the mood don’t you.” Kartik, however, turned around, allowing him to have a look. 

There was a slight redness there between the scars, but there seemed to be no sign of bruising or internal bleeding. It was not as terrible as he had expected, which meant Kartik did a half-decent job by himself. Still, if Aman did not tend to it tonight it might get worse.

“Is it bad?” asked Kartik.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” said Aman. “Does it hurt much?”

“Only when there’s too much pressure applied to it.”

“Go to the bed,” Aman instructed. “Take off the armbands and I’ll bring the salves.”

Kartik kissed his cheek “I’ll light the lamps too.” 

Aman went to the cabinet where Kartik kept the medicine used for his shoulder. And just like that, they fell back into their familiar routine. 

Kartik was sitting on the bed reading through a book that he had picked up from the hidden stash in the library. True to his words the lamps had been lit, combined with the light of the evening sun, it gave their room a hellish glow. It reminded Aman of their first meeting. 

Without a word Aman sat behind him, opening the bottles and starting the slow massage of his shoulder. He did not need to think about his movements, they came automatically now, the actions ingrained in his body, perfected until they reached minute precision. Though Aman had done this many times before, he still found himself luxuriating in the feel of Kartik. The other man seemed to utterly relax under his care and Aman’s hands found themselves gradually moving out of the perimeter of his shoulder. 

He traced his spine, all the way to the small of his back, all simply because he could. 

Kartik looked up from his book, lazily turning back to face him with an expression that was utterly relaxed 

“Aman...”

  
  
“Mmm?”

“That’s not my shoulder.”

Aman leaned forward and pressed lips against the shoulder in question “I am well aware.”

Kartik seemed to meld into the kiss for a moment before pushing his book away, shifted his whole body around making a grab for the Bloody Necklace that lay at Aman’s neck. He closed his eyes leaning back slightly, drawing Aman in for no doubt another kiss. As tempting as it was to let Kartik have his way Aman remembered that the salves were still unopened and could potentially spill. 

Taking advantage of the other king's closed eyes Aman hastily, unclasped the Bloody Necklace from the back of his neck, letting it fall unceremoniously on Kartik’s lap. He only had moments to register Kartik’s confused expression before snatching up the salves, closing them and rising to place them in the cabinet where they were usually kept. 

From behind him, he heard exasperated laughter.

“Fucking bastard.”

Aman grinned. Knowing that Kartik would still be waiting for him he decided to take his time. Putting the vials back to their place went to the vanity slowly removing the armbands from his biceps. Knowing that it would only serve to heighten Kartik’s restlessness.

As he placed the silvers armbands on the vanity next to Kartik’s own, he heard movement coming from behind him. The first sound was a metallic drop of something on the stone floor followed by the rustling of sheets. 

Aman turned around to see that Kartik had stood up from the bed, the Bloody Necklace that had once been in his hand now at his feet. Seeing that he now had Aman’s attention Kartik held his gaze, slowly, deliberately he undid the belted Cold Dagger from his waist dropping it to the floor, falling on top of the necklace. Aman considered the imagery of the dagger and necklace side by side. A constellation of blood pierced through with a flame of ice. He was about to comment on it, but before he could anything both pieces of jewellery were suddenly obscured by the falling of a plum velvet curtain. 

Kartik’s _ripped_ plum velvet curtain.

It seemed he had gotten impatient. He stood before Aman in all his glory, smouldering, flaring in the warm glow of the dying sun. He was in his element here, in the dusk, sunlight dripping from every inch of him. 

He was arresting, magnificent.

_And mine._ A part of Aman reminded himself. _Mine._

He found he could not speak.

“The curtain was too stifling,” Kartik explained innocently, shrugging. But his smile was far from innocent. “What never seen a man before?” 

“I have,” said Aman, regaining so composure. It was not like he was new to this. “But none of them had been you”

Kartik walked towards him, all the while Aman started moving backwards, wholly mesmerised by the vision of his lover before him. But not entirely willing to give in to his advances just yet. Aman found he still liked being a little cruel.

“You said you would teach me all about anatomy,” said Kartik, his voice low and utterly beguiling. 

“It thought the healer’s art bored you,” Aman remarked playfully. 

They were playing cat and mouse and it was entirely rigged in Kartik’s favour. Not that Aman minded in the very least. It was the game he liked, not necessarily the victory.

“Oh it _does_ bore me,” said Kartik moving closer. Aman kept walking backwards enjoying the seething frustration that built up in the other man. “I find it mind-numbingly boring.”

“Then I don’t think you’ll find my teachings of much interest” 

“Something tells me I will be very interested this time around.”

A soon as he said this, Aman felt his back hitting the wall, which allowed Kartik to gain the advantage, giving him the opportunity to get closer, pinning him against the wall, a hand on either side. He was so close that Aman could feel his warmth, his breath, the slight tantalising brush of his skin. Aman looked into his eyes and for a moment there was nothing else, no one else but them. 

Kartik leaned forward his lips brushing against Aman’s neck.

“You’re driving me insane,” he muttered. “Do you know that?”

Aman tangled his fingers through Kartik hair, lifting his head up until they were facing each other again, bringing him closer, their lips almost touching. 

“No one said you were sane in the first place.”

With that Aman placing his lips against Kartik’s, who responded, in turn, pressing their bodies together. At his touch at his kiss, at the feeling of his skin, Aman’s own body responded, his loins quickening hardening with Kartik’s own. This time he felt no shame in his desire, in his arousal. No, with Kartik everything felt sacred.

Aman’s mouth travelled down his neck, to that blessed collarbone of his. He let his teeth graze over it, his hands running down his lover's body, down his chest, stomach, revelling in the sounds, the movements of pleasure he was able to elicit from Kartik. 

His hand continued their downward journey, but before he could as he intended they were intercepted by Kartik himself. 

Aman pulled away embarrassed, ashamed. “Have I overstepped?” 

Kartik squeezed his hand reassuringly “No, not at all.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Kartik looked at the floor “It’s ridiculous. I’m sorry-”

“No don’t be sorry,” assured Aman. “It won’t be ridiculous I promise. Tell me.”

“Ever since the night at the temple I…” he looked up into Aman’s eyes. “You have no idea what it meant for me. You held me and said it would be alright. You gave me hope. And I had this…wish I suppose. That if you ever let me…that I would cherish you, love you. I want to worship you…” he grew bashful. “I told you it was ridiculous.”

Aman paused. It had been years since he had trusted another man wholly with his body. 

The last time had done so had also been the first. It had been at the Phulantari, had been young, sixteen years old in all, slightly drunk and inexperienced in the art of lovemaking. So he had let Vakul take control, he had trusted him and it had only taken three days for the rumours to spread. Three days for Vakul to boast that he had fucked the king of Mahan. 

Ever since then Aman had learned then that his body was viewed as a battleground to be conquered. Ever since then Aman had vowed that he would become the conqueror, not the conquered.

“I am sorry,” Kartik’s voice cut through the memories. “If it is not what you want, I understand.”

Aman looked at Kartik at his kind eyes, his eagerness, his earnestness. He intent was not to conquer, he was not here to sully Aman’s body in the name of victory. No, he came as a pilgrim would to a holy land, he came as a devotee, he had come to pay his love and respects.

Aman took Kartik’s other hand in his, brushing his fingers over his knuckles lightly. He smiled and pulled Kartik closer to him so that their noses touched. If Aman could trust Kartik with his nations and his family, then Aman could trust him with himself and his body too.

“Do you know what you are to me?” Aman whispered.

Kartik searched his eyes. He did not answer, he seemed at a loss for words.

“Should I tell you then, exactly what you meant to me?” 

“Tell me,” Kartik’s voice came out breathless.

Aman closed his eyes. His voice came out low, soft like the steady brush of butterfly wings, the fall of tears, with all the warmth of a fire: 

_“My lover. My friend. My king.”_

Six words but they meant everything. As he said them, he felt as if he set the air on fire, ablaze. In this moment it seemed as if the very air had been scorched, enchanted, filled with something more. There was shrill call in the air, sweet and melodic like that of a songbird but far more bewitching. In this moment Aman could believe magic was real, for it lay in Kartik’s touch.

He opened his eyes then looking into Kartik’s own, he guided Kartik’s trembling hands to the hips, feeling them falter against his bare skin, then slowly steady in their touch. “I trust you.” He told him.

A flurry of emotions ran past Kartik’s face then. Aman could read them all. There was awe. Amazement. As if Aman had handed him the whole world. But there was also fear there too. It mirrored Aman’s own. 

“What are you waiting for?” Aman asked.

Kartik said not a word. He only drew Aman closer to him, placing their foreheads together. Aman could feel against his own torso, other man’s skin, the lines and curves of his body. 

Kartik first kissed his forehead, each eyelid, each cheek, before finally his mouth. Out of all the kisses they had shared thus far, this one was Aman’s favourite. It was sensual, passionate, yet soft. Aman’s own hands found themselves running up Kartik body burying themselves into his hair once again. Gods it was soft, still a little damp, but not unpleasurable. 

He felt himself wanting more, he tilted his head a little, opening his mouth slightly. Kartik understood, reacted in turn, opening his own mouth to deepen the kiss. And his tongue...Aman could not even begin to describe it. 

Kartik’s mouth moved from his lips, to the corner of his mouth, down his neck. He seemed to especially like his neck, for he spent a fair amount of time luxuriating it with his lips, until Aman impatiently protested that he was taking too long. His hands were all over his body. He was true to his word, he worshipped him. For the first time in his life, Aman felt cherished and loved, Kartik was an attentive lover, he held Aman as if he were precious. He, for all his initial impatience, was also surprisingly gentle, even when he used teeth, as he was fond of doing. 

There were times when Kartik would pause, Aman would feel him smile against his skin. Those were his favourite moments. 

Slowly the self-control, the one Aman had built over the last ten years started to unravel, his responses to Kartik, becoming less controlled. His eyes closed in bliss as Kartik’s lips went from the base of his throat all the way to his sternum and stomach. He body arched itself to receive his lover’s ministrations more readily.

At first, he had been too embarrassed to let any sound of his mouth, he had even turned red when let had let out his first involuntary moan. But Kartik did not judge him for it, in fact, he seemed more impassioned by it, his actions, his lips, his tongue, his teeth attuning themself to the sound of Aman and his desires.

Kartik had reached Aman’s lower abdomen, his hands slipping a little into the waistband of his trousers. He stopped and looked up at him, his fingers at the drawstrings. 

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

Aman opened his eyes. He had been too caught up in Kartik’s veneration that he had not noticed when Kartik had knelt, yet here he was kneeling before him.

“I am sure,” he said diffidently for the sight of Kartik kneeling before him brought another thought to mind. “You know I once swore that I would have you on your knees.”

“I see you have kept all your promises,” said Kartik laughing.

“Not all promises. I swore I would kill you too,” said Aman. “I won’t keep that promise.”

“As far as I’m concerned there are many hours until sunrise…”

“I’m not going to kill you, never I love-”

“I’m only saying you can kill me in other ways,” Kartik’s expression turned roguish. “...later.”

Aman knew it was ridiculous. But he felt better about forsaking his oath. For he had not forsaken it, not truly. In a way, he was fulfilling it, even if it was not in the way many people would have dared imagine. 

Aman’s own remark was lost when he felt teeth grazing his hip, the drawstrings of his trousers loosening. He closed his eyes, lost in the raptures of Kartik’s touch. As one by one the last remnants of his clothes fell to the floor Aman felt once again Kartik’s smile against his skin.

Then it fell.

Aman opened his eyes to see Kartik moving away his eyes fixed firmly on Aman’s upper thighs. He looked if he had been slapped in the face. It was here Aman recalled his own scars. The precise lines on his inner thigh that could never come from battle. It was not that he had forgotten his own pain. No, it had become a part of him in such a way that he had forgotten not everyone knew.

He could not help but feel ashamed before Kartik. He had been weak then.

"May I touch it." Kartik’s words were as jagged as a cliff face bu his eyes had become determined underneath his tears. They sparkled.

"Yes," Aman found himself saying.

If it had been anyone else other than Kartik he would have said no in a heartbeat. He trusted the other man wholly, even with this.

Kartik did not say another word to Aman, he pressed his lips gently against the inside of his thighs, where the scars were. As the kisses rained down like little blessings the shame that Aman had felt started to dissipate. 

_You’re not weak for it_ Jaimini had said to him when she had found him bleeding, helping him with his cuts. He had not understood her then. But he did now.

His scars, his battle, were nothing glorious, nothing to be celebrated. But they were his pain, a part of his story. The scars will always a part of him and the fact that they were there, that they had eventually healed, the fact that he had let himself _live_ long enough to let them heal told so much. He was a survivor and that was something he _should_ be proud of.

And Kartik’s kisses told him that he respected that, that Kartik loved him. Every part of him, even the most destroyed and vulnerable parts. Aman knew he could never say anyone it out loud, but his kisses told more than his words ever will. They were like a balm.

Kartik’s lips, his tongue, moved up until they met the cynosure of his thighs. It was here Aman understood Kartik was not just a poet of the written word, but of the physique. It was here that Aman lost all reason, for him the words heaven and hell remained, just that, words. Kartik had taken him to a place where they melted together, in aching sweetness, a place of sin that was sinless. 

He could not remember his own name if he tried. Only Kartik’s, it was the name that escaped his lips, again and again. It was sheer will that kept him from losing control, from unravelling completely. Sheer will that kept him intact.

It came as both a mercy and a curse when Kartik’s mouth left his manhood. Aman had only barely enough time to catch his breath when he met Kartik’s eyes.

“How do you want me to do it?” he asked.

Aman caressed his cheek “I want to see your face. I want it to be simple.”

That brought a swift smile to Kartik’s features. He rose from his knees, taking Aman’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrists before clasping them tightly. 

“You tell me when I need to slow down or stop altogether,” said Kartik. “I don’t _ever_ want to hurt you. I don’t ever want you to feel pressured into anything. No matter how impassioned I am, I can stop. I will stop. I want you to know that.”

Aman had felt completely at ease with Kartik, and his words only made him feel safer. 

_I am lucky_ he thought to himself _lucky to have him, someone cares so much._

He pulled Kartik in closer by the hand and kissed his cheek in thanks.

“I know,” he said. “I trust you remember. But right now I need you to shut up, I need you to kiss me senseless and take me to bed.”

“It would be an honour.”

True to his word, Kartik kissed him fiercely, his fervour undimmed. Aman did not remember how or when Kartik guided him to the bed but he did. The next thing he felt was the absence of Kartik. He felt it keenly. He pushed back on the bed, the linen sheets strangely pleasurable against his bare skin. 

Kartik joined him only moment later with a jar of oil, the one they had been regularly emptying to keep up the pretence that they were in fact intimate. It would no longer remain a pretence. 

“Shall I close the curtains?” asked Kartik.

“They are ripped, there’s no point.”

“Are you ready then?”

“Yes.”

Kartik clambered on top of him and kissed his neck his collar bones his chest then finally back up to his mouth, before coming back down to his hips. Gently parting his legs, Kartik laid more kisses on his thighs.

“Are you sure?” he looked back up into his eyes pulling away.

“I am sure” he promised. “I will tell you if it gets too much. I promise. Don’t worry about me.”

Kartik ran a hand through his hair and kissed him again “I love you.”

“You’re supposed to say that after,” Aman joked. 

“I can say it whenever I want because it’s true.” Kartik smiled. “You have to to say it back.”

Aman rolled his eyes but relented “I love you too.” 

Kartik opened the jar of oil and strangely enough, Aman felt shy. Not since Vakul, had he allowed anyone to do it for him. Up until now that had been forbidden territory. He was letting Kartik know him in a way he had not allowed his other lovers to know him. He was not without fear, but the knowledge that Kartik would be gentle and loving allayed that fear. If he did no trust himself he trusted Kartik. So he let him, he let Kartik prepare the entrance to his body. And even that task felt like a pleasure, a holy rite with Kartik.

Once prepared, limbs entwined, comfortably positioned Kartik’s eyes met his. The look in eyes craved, the look in his eyes lingered, in a way that loved. 

And Kartik started slow, steady loving. He was exquisite in his love-making and it seemed that the gods had moulded him to fit Aman from the very start. For him, there was only Kartik in this world. Only his skin, lips, the sound, the feel of him. 

It was only them. No one else.

From their lips came each other’s name.

_Kartik._

_Aman._

They were repeated again and again, like a fervent prayer, as the moon rose. Aman felt his body burn with bliss in every movement. Though Aman was a king, though his nation had put him on a pedestal, on a throne, place a kalgi on his head, though they bowed down to him, he never felt more venerated than he had in this moment. 

For the first time, Aman let himself unravel completely. He let himself lose all and every semblance of control. He did not need those damned strictures anymore. Not when he was in Kartik’s arms.

~~~

  
  


Far off in the mountains of Eskabad, the air was still cold. 

Queen, Mihan, sat alone on one of the slopes. Though it was summer, she still breathed in ice. Her kingdom was a cold kingdom, but she loved it for it was hers and the ice lay heavy in her bones. 

She looked down at the settlement in the valley below, the summer sun was dying, the stars already on their rise. The mountain upon which she sat was known as the Saapki Grave, where the last Saapki was said to have died. Usually, it would be capped heavily with snow, but today in midsummer it was more watery, slush, if truth be told. 

Looking down on the midsummer celebrations she smiled at the sound of laughter, the warmth of the fire. She felt old, worn. As if she had lived longer than she had been alive. She was glad they were here and that the Dark Star had not fallen on the village itself. For such a small thing it caused quite a commotion. 

Mihan drew it out from the bearskin cloth she had wrapped it in. It was long thin, and flat, shaped like a blade with sharp edges to match. It seemed to be made of crystal, light and easy to move, yet it was strong. 

When she had first seen it, it had been pitch black. When she had touched it, however, from it had emerged pinpricks of silver, like stars. It changed when different people touched it. Different colours for every individual. 

“I missed the biggest wedding of the age because of you,” she told the Dark Star. 

The Dark Star did not deem to give her a reply.

The last time she had seen Aman was when he was a child, just after his father died when she had gone to pay her respects as an ally. The last time she had seen Kartik was when he had been sixteen, eight years ago when he had come to Eskabad. 

Though she had known them only briefly loved them both in her own way as if they, she loved them as if they were her own brothers. She knew them well enough to know that they were as different as the sun and moon so it had come as s surprise when the announcement was made that they were to be wed. That they were going to put three hundred years of bloodshed behind them.

She had known then that it was time, time to fulfil the legacy that Faneel had left behind.

For three hundred years the rulers of Eskabad had held to keys to the hidden books of Shafaq out of Faneel’s love for their friends Aayush and Taharin. They had held the secret nigh, in hope that one day the fighting would stop, and it had. 

In a way, she felt proud of the two kings, proud of their courage. But she was also proud of herself to be alive to witness it. She was proud that she was the one who had given the Saapki bone keys fulfilling Faneel’s longheld dream.

A letter from Shafaq had arrived only a week ago, detailing the discovery of the books. The kings had invited her to come and stay. She had accepted. By autumn she would be in Shafaq and a part of her was excited to see the books, Faneel’s last mark on this earth, Shafaq and of course the two kings themselves.

It was strange how all three of them had been pushed into leadership at far too young an age, how the three of them should have broken under the pressure of picking up the broken threads, the desolate kingdoms their ancestors had left behind. 

After all, they had been only children.

She understood what it was like to lose a parent, to pushed into the role of leadership before one’s time. She understood them both but it seemed she understood Aman most. Kartik had never been ruling alone. Not in the way that Aman had, Aman who felt the whole weight of that responsibility for years. She had understood however, she understood his bitterness for she had felt it once too.

When she had seen him last she had seen a mirror of her younger self in him brave, stubborn, cocky, steadfast but burdened. 

The only difference was that she had learned to let her guard down at first on lonely mountain peaks such as this one, and then slowly with her cousin.

As if summoned she spotted Ugdam’s approach in the distance. 

“Are you not going to join us?” he asked when he was in hearing range.

“In a minute. You know that I like the view from here,” she replied. “Ever since I was a child.”

Ugdam sat beside her, grimacing as he managed to land on a wet spot. “They should call it the Watery Grave instead of the Saapki Grave, especially in this time of year. I don’t know why you like it here.”

“You’ve said it many times yourself Ugdam, I’m a stubborn little shit when it comes to sentimentality.”

Ugdam ruffled her hair, as he was often wont to when the fancy suited him. “That you are.”

“You should go join the midsummer celebrations,” she said. “I’ll come I promise.”

“I’m not going down without you,” he insisted. “You’ve been spending too much time with the Dark Star.”

Mihan handed raised it towards him “I have never seen anything like it.”

“It would make a fine blade,” he remarked. “Come I’m sure we have a whole lifetime to worry about its origins and make.”

He was right, ruminating on a mountain slope was not going to do much. 

As they were about to leave however Mihan felt a shift in the air. Up until now, it had felt like she had been breathing ice, but now the ice had been set aflame. It felt as if the very air was enchanted. She breathed it in, she felt as if she were alive for the first time.

“What’s that?” Ugdamn whispered beside her.

“What’s what?”

Ugdam pointed to a patch of snow where three small pronged horns stuck out. They watched in fascination as the horns rose. They were gold in the light of the dying sun. They looked like crowns. The crown was attached to a viper like body, its scales opalescent, gleaming subtly against white watery grave that it emerge from. It was tiny, no bigger than her forearm.

There was shrill call in the air, sweet and melodic like that of a songbird but far more bewitching. It emanated from the creature before them. A myth, only seen in bone and in paintings on the walls, was manifested before their eyes. 

“And so Viper King king rises from a Watery Grave,” said Ugdam, joking. 

“No,” whispered Mihan. “It’s a Saapki.”

~~~

The last time Kartik had allowed someone else to draw on him, it had been Devika. She had been thirteen and her idea of an artistic masterpiece came in the form of phallic symbols. The stain had not rubbed off for a week no matter how many baths he had taken. He hoped Aman did not share his artistic tastes with a thirteen-year-old Devika. 

He had in the end relented to his lover’s request, reasoning that if Aman trusted him wholly with his body then he should accord him with the same trust. Besides if the drawing was of a cock, it was an awfully detailed one. 

Aman was taking far too long for his liking.

Kartik was lying on his back tangled in the linen sheets, his right arm stretched out, while Aman lay with his head on Kartik’s uninjured shoulder, he had been drawing with a quill for at least half an hour on his forearm. They were now waiting for the ink to dry.

“How much longer do I have to wait?” asked Kartik. 

“Only a little bit,” Aman tilted his head slightly pressing his lips on the inside of Kartik’s elbow. “You gave me a whole epic. Months of work, let me give you something. It will six months by midnight.”

“If you let me move my arm I will kiss you.”

“If you move your arm, you’re sleeping in the stables.” Aman threatened.

“As long as you’re with me, I don’t care where I sleep,” he whispered. “Is it done yet?”

“Almost,” Aman promised.

The next few minutes would have been excruciating if Kartik had not spotted an ink stain on Aman’s side. He spent the next few minutes doing some art of his own using the little ink, creating small swirls. He had no particular artistic skill, but he was proud of his little creation. One could even call it beautiful in an abstract sort of way.

Finally, Aman lifted his head off Kartik’s shoulder and sat up facing him.

“It’s dry,” he announced, looking at Kartik expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

Kartik lifted his arm from his position, looked at his forearm and at the sight. It was a drawing of Noor as they looked in the temple, the sun and moon aloft and in balance robed in stars. He felt a little ashamed at thinking his own concoction of swirls at Aman’s body was anything of beauty. They paled by far in comparison.

“It’s beautiful,” Kartik smiled. “Noor, to symbolise our second marriage. How did I have the luck to marry a man as talented as you?”

Aman shrugged “It’s nothing special, we were all taught how to draw the gods as children. Even Rajni could draw Noor with ease. I just wanted to do...something for you. It’s nothing compared to your epic. I would have written you a composition but...”

He showed Kartik his hands. The cuts from the sitar were only just beginning to heal.

“It doesn’t matter, I love it,” said Kartik. “Do you think I can have it on here permanently?”

“Like the tattoos of the Southern Islanders?” asked Aman. 

“Yes,” Kartik then remembered something, his hands went up to his neck. “What did you draw here?”

Before Aman had spent the last half an hour drawing Noor, he had tested the quill by drawing something at Kartik’s neck.

Aman smiled “A triangle. Don’t ask me why it was the first thing that had come to mind.”

“I’m getting them both permanently,” announced Kartik. “Until then, you’ll have to draw them on every time they fade.”

“It would be an honour,” said Aman.

“Did you like _my_ little drawing?”

Aman looked down at his side, as the cluster of swirls just below his ribcage and smiled “It is stunning. Magnificent. A true work of art.”

The incompetence Kartik felt at his own drawing fell away. If Aman liked it that was all that mattered. 

“I’m cold,” said Kartik. He did not like having Aman out of his arms, at least not for tonight.

“It’s midsummer.”

“And your point is?”

Aman’s eyes twinkled with mischief as they had once done at Phulantari. He lay back down beside Kartik burying his face into his neck, kissing it softly. Even this small touch, the feel of his beard, his hair, his skin, seemed to ignite something with Kartik.

After their first bedding, they had bathed together again, which had promptly led to a second round. This time with Aman in control. And yet still Kartik found he yearned for more. 

All the poems are wrong he knew, it did not stop. Being with your lover held no completion. The wanting, it never waned. He and Aman had made love twice that night but still, he found he hungered. Still, he found that their gazes were weighted, the silences held unspoken words. The yearning did not stop. It never would. Not for as long as they lived.

He tilted Aman face towards him and thumbed the corner of his eye, taking in their brilliance. Aman was in his element here, in the moonlight, silver lining his body, soft and ethereal like a crescent moon. And his eyes. Gods those eyes would be the death of Kartik.

“You know,” he whispered taking all of him in. “Everything about you is divine but I like your eyes the best.”

“I never really thought my eyes were that special,” Aman admitted. 

“Look’s like I will have to remedy that misconception” Kartik kissed his temple. “For one did you know I based Aayush off of you?”

Aman gave a half-smile “Chaman Chacha suspected as much. I have not read the poem yet, not the parts about Aayush at least.”

“Would you like to hear a verse?” Kartik had once joked to Devika about reciting poetry to his lovers in bed. He had not thought it would one day be a reality.

“Yes” said Aman. "Yes, I would."  
  


So Kartik started.

_There was no honey or gold in his eyes_

_No sunlight, only darkness_

_They were blackness between the storm_

_The ashes of a dead flame_

_They were a void so dark_

_That you can almost believe_

_That somewhere in those billowing depths_

_In the undulating darkness_

_Lies the celestial bodies of the heavens above_

_When he laughs they emerge_

_His eyes are the night sky_

_And all I can do is stargaze_

“And you wrote this about my eyes?”

“No one else’s match the description.”

Aman did not say much but Kartik could tell he was quietly pleased.

Aman rested his head on Kartik’s chest, placing his ear just above Kartik’s beating heart. 

He traced the scars on Kartik’s body absent-mindedly, his hands making their way up to his shoulder where the scar was. He looked up and this time Kartik knew exactly what question was on his mind. 

“How did he die?” Aman asked softly facing him. 

Kartik drew both his arms around him tightly as if protecting him from something. But how could he protect him when he had been his biggest tormentor?

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked. “It’s not exactly what I expected we would be talking about after…”

“We’re…” Aman paused. “We’re spending the rest of our lives together and…” he paused. “I don’t want this to fester. I want us to heal.” Aman paused. “Sometimes when you’re treating a wound you need to cut away some of the flesh, it hurts the patient but its better for them in the long run.”

“You’ll make a physician out of me yet Aman Tripathi,” said Kartik. 

“Aman _Singh_ Tripathi,” he corrected. “We’re married, two weddings, surely you haven’t forgotten.”

Kartik found himself grinning like a fool. But Aman’s hands were still on the scar on his shoulder. Kartik leaned back onto the pillows, closing his eyes, feeling Aman’s warmth against him. 

“You tell me if I ever need to stop talking,” he said after a while. “You don’t have to hear more than you’re willing to.”

“And you,” said Aman. “Don’t have to say more than you are comfortable with.”

“I was fourteen,” said Kartik. “Father had died only three months earlier. I was eager to prove myself to everyone. I knew I had to do something to prove myself because they never take a child seriously. But you already know that.”

“Child Monarchs.” Aman spat the words out like a bitter curd. “We’re either supposed to be dolls, pretty playthings to be used as pawns. Or we’re supposed to force our minds to grow before our bones do. They never think to help with the burden. They never stop and realise we break ourselves apart with every movement. No, they laud it, they applaud every self-inflicted wound and hold us nigh, bleeding, on a pedestal too narrow and too high for even a throne to sit steady upon. _Look_ they say _our Boy King_ , as if it was something glorious. As if crowning a broken child a king, as if making them shoulder all your burdens, was something to be proud of.”

“You should consider writing poetry,” said Kartik, but he held Aman closer to him, twinging their legs together now. He knew and understood every word. He felt the same anger, the same bitterness, the same poison in his very bones. 

“I have interrupted,” said Aman. “Continue.”

“Well, you know the rest, the new shift in the monarchy allowed for more gaps in the border. And your father exploited them. Parmesh, who was the Commander in Chief, did his best but the troops needed a King to lead them.” Kartik found his chest cave at the mention of Parmesh. “He didn’t want me to go, but I insisted. I know you have a regency here for when a child is crowned sovereign, but in Akhtar, there is no such thing. Parmesh was the closest thing I had to a father and a regent, he guided me, shielded me as best as he could, but the power of the throne was mine and the enemies of the throne were also mine. I thought that if I came home with a victory no one would try to use me, they would respect me as they had never done my father, or at least in his later years.”

“Is that why you sent back the bloody banner?” asked Aman. 

There it was again, that damned bloodied banner. 

“I do not mean to be insensitive, but is the bloody banner a metaphor for destruction in the Mahanite tongue? I know I can speak it well but the nuances of poetic language are sometimes lost to me.”

“No,” said Aman. “It was not a metaphor. My father sent a white banner of peace, as my mother suggested. To try and bring some sort of treaty into place. It was sent back to us bloodied.”

Aman looked him in the eye. For a moment their embrace seethed with suspicion. As if Aman was trying to see if Kartik would tell the truth. And Kartik decided to tell him just that, the truth.

“I never received a banner from Mahan, of peace or otherwise,”

It opened a whole new set of questions. But they did not need to be addressed, not tonight. 

Aman nodded “I believe you. What happened then?”

“I fought,” Kartik shook his head. “I was so naive Aman. So fucking naive. I don’t know what I was thinking truly. You’ve probably heard the songs, how I insisted I would not have my own guard around me, how I lead the charge. How I looked resplendent in my armour, how I fought like a fucking demon. None of it is true.”

“Tell me then,” Aman urged. “What truly happened?”

“I fell off my horse within the first five minutes,” said Kartik. “Lost my helm in the next two. I was so scared, I couldn’t see anything before me. I don’t remember what I did or who I hit. All I can remember was the blood, the screams of fear and hatred.”

Kartik felt a shiver run through him as the memories threatened to take control, he felt his heartbeat faster, he could smell the smoke and blood. It was Aman who noticed Aman who grounded him, who held his hand, stroked his beard, ran his fingers through his hair, embracing him.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “It’s not real Kartik. You’re here with me. Breathe.”

Kartik listened to him. He breathed. He focused his mind on Aman, his skin, his touch, his eyes. In a matter of minutes, he was calmer.

“You do not have to tell me any more,” said Aman. 

“I want to,” said Kartik. 

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I should never have asked.”

“He was your father. Do not feel guilty about it. You have a right to know.”

“He is also your father-in-law technically speaking,” Aman joked weakly.

“You know if someone told me that he was my father-in-law at that moment I would not have believed them. For one I did not even know he was Shankar Tripathi King of Mahan. Not until he was dead.”

“I do not know how people could fight and still see all around them.” Kartik continued pointed to his scar “This was the first thing I felt acutely amidst the blur of battle. And then I fought him. I had to or I would not have survived. The training yard never prepares you for a real battle. It’s not as pretty as the songs. I...” he was not sure how to tell Aman. “I don’t know if you will believe me.”

“I will believe you,” said Aman. 

“I never meant ...killing him...the sword, I did not know what I was doing with it. I know I fought him but my aim was to get away from him. Killing him was an accident. It was only when he fell did I realise I had killed the king of Mahan.”

Aman simply drew himself closer to Kartik, clasping him tighter. So Kartik continued.

“Then Rajni saw she charged at me. Parmesh came with the royal guard to defend me. I think I must have passed out I do not remember the rest. I woke up to Qabid cleaning my wounds and learning Parmesh had died by Rajni’s hand. I did not remember the celebrations home. They called me a hero, but all I could feel was the pain. The pain of losing Parmesh, the pain of having killed and the battle wound.”

“You must have loved Parmesh,”

“He was like another father after my father turned to alcohol, Parmesh and Qabid were the only ones I felt I could trust.” Kartik felt his heart sink. “I do not think he would have been proud of the years that followed.”

“I think he would have been proud, very proud. You are here are you not? With me.” Aman looked up. “None of this would have been possible without you. You were always the better king. The hero, the one that inspires so much love and compassion.”

_The better king._ Kartik did not like those words for underneath them lay a sense of inferiority. And never wanted Aman to feel like his inferior. Because in truth he was not, he never was.

“You are my equal,” Kartik stated firmly. “You do not know your power, Aman. You are a herald of hope. You have given hope to so many. Me, Sarai, this whole nation. I will not deny my part, my role in all this. But in the end, I think when they sing our song, sing of our love, you would be the hero of our tale.”

“I will gut you alive for this statement.”

“I thought you had given up on vengeance entirely?”

Aman laughed and it warmed Kartik’s heart, knowing they were able to joke about it.

“But no truly,” said Aman. “I truly think Parmesh would be proud to see you today.”

“I am not talking about today but the years that followed the war.”

“What happened?”

“My father turned alcohol when he lost my mother. I turned to opium and lost myself. For the seven years that followed I truly was my father’s son.”

“Opium?” the word slipped out of Aman's tongue involuntarily. 

There was a fear in his voice, and the fear was rightfully placed. The drug was nefarious for its highly addictive qualities, for the sallow eyes, half-dead men still walking the earth and families left in ruin. 

“It was for the pain in my shoulder initially,” said Kartik. “Qabid ensured that the administration was strictly followed. But I stole from him I...I became reckless. There was a time when I could not physically go through the day without the opium. You say you wasted your life in vengeance. I wasted mine on the drug. I let it take over me in such a way I was no longer myself.”

“But you got better.”

“It got worse before it got better. I was a good king yes, I pulled Akhtar out of the ditch my father put us in. But the facade came at a terrible cost. The more I ruled, the more nightmares I got the more opium I needed. I treated those around me with such cruelty I feel too ashamed to even talk about it now.

“I don’t know how they did it” continued Kartik. “How Devika, Parvaaz and Qabid put up with years of overdoses relapses, promises that I would do better. I was careful to hide it from Nasireh but I think they suspected too.”

Kartik sucked in a breath. He had not disclosed the last opium incident with anyone outside those that had been there. He was fearful now, afraid that Aman would see him as lesser. But Aman trusted him, and he was willing to trust Aman with everything he had.

“I was your age actually, the last time it happened, three years ago,” Kartik paused. “I overdosed so badly everyone thought I was going to die. When the withdrawals came eventually, they were violent. I begged for either opium or death. I had to be restrained or I…”

The act was too monstrous to even speak about so he did not voice it.

“Devika was the one who in the end saved me, ignited a part of me that wanted to do better by her and by everyone else. She gave me a choice and I chose to live.” Kartik stopped, ashamed. “I do not know why I am telling you all this.”

“I’m honoured that you told me this much, you do not have to tell me anymore. And I don’t ever want you to feel ashamed for it. I don’t ever want you to think I respect you any less or love you any less for it. Because I don’t, do you understand?” 

“Yes,” 

It was easier said than done, but it was a start. Aman raised himself so that he was sitting up. He brought Kartik into his arms, kissing his temple. Kartik lay his head against Aman’s chest listening to his heartbeat. 

Kartik felt a flood of happiness at the simple touch, he felt himself smile. The sound of his husband's beating heart steadied him.

“There is an ease with talking to you,” Kartik stated. “I’m sorry however. I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

“I’ve had the best night of my life you’re telling me, that you didn’t enjoy it?” Aman grinned into his hair. “You _sounded_ very pleased or were you only doing that to boost my ego?”

Kartik broke their embrace. He took up the pillow and threw it at Aman’s face out of exasperation, slightly embarrassed. It was true he had been very pleased with Aman prowess. Despite his embarrassment, he felt himself revelling in the sound of Aman's laughter. 

“I only meant in the sense that I wish I hadn’t killed him." explained Kartik when Aman's laughter subsided. "Not everyone can have a loving father. Just look at what happened to mine.”

“Kartik…” 

“I wish that we could have met under better circumstances. I wish I had an actual opportunity to court you. To do it with love instead of it being under the threat of war.” Kartik’s hands went to Aman’s thighs, he brushed his scars lightly. “I am sorry I hurt you.”

He thought about Aman alone in his rooms, bleeding, hurting himself. He thought about the loneliness most of all. Where Kartik had people, reigning in his worst impulses as best as they could manage, while he had people to support him, Aman did not have that. His cry for help gone unheard and unseen.

“You didn’t hurt me,” said Aman firmly. “You never could.” Aman pushed the sheets away proudly revealing his scars. “You could tell me all you like that is was your fault. And yes things tend to have a butterfly effect. But _you_ did not do this to me. It would be easy to pin the blame on myself too, and it truth perhaps I should have caught myself before I fell yet somehow I don't think Jaimini would approve.”

“Jaimini?" Kartik let the name settle on his tongue. 

“It took Keshav his whole life to realise he was love with her you know,” said Aman. “She was my best friend I think. Though we did no become friends until I was sixteen. She was always there on the sidelines. Fixing my kalgi whenever it would fall off. Telling me a joke when I needed to hear it most. Little things.”

Aman paused as if trying to catch his breath. 

“When I was sixteen I fell in love,” he said. “His name was Vakul. I spent months trying to get his attention. I think I may have been a little too obvious. In the end, we got drunk at the Phulantari, and we…we became intimate. He was the first person I had been with. Three days later the rumours spread. He boasted about. I felt like everything I had worked for had been for naught and that everything was out of my control.”

Kartik felt the sudden urge to wring this Vakul's neck, wherever he was. Not out of jealousy, never out of jealousy. But for the sheer disrespect and violation of Aman's trust.

He looked down at his scars “I don’t know if you will understand it but this, the pain, the pain I could cause myself was the only semblance of control I had left. I had been doing a long time before Vakul, but it heightened after the incident.”

Kartik understood it, it was like opium. You gave yourself a false sense of agency thinking you had control over your pain and the oblivion when in truth you became a thrall to your impulses.

“A week later Jaimini found me then. I suppose I had been more closed off than usual and of course, she had heard the rumours Vakul had spread. I suppose she wanted to see if I was well. When she saw what I had done to myself, she didn’t say anything but she helped me clean my wounds. It had been her idea to ask Vakul to come to my rooms under false pretences and threaten to castrate him if he spoke anymore. When he left court out of fear, the two of us celebrated by the Godsblade with sweets and honeyed wine. I knew from then on that she would be disappointed if I hurt myself. I could not disappoint her. And as the years passed I found myself more comfortable talking to her and I hurt myself less.” tears were welling in Aman’s eyes. “She died believing I’d do better. I stopped altogether after that.”

Kartik held his hand he did not know what he should say but he kissed Aman’s hand, before drawing him into an embrace letting him weep against his chest once again. Kartik wept too, he could not help it. They were both of them vulnerable beings, scarred beings, wounded beings. But they were healing slowly, and they were doing it together.

Kartik kissed him again, for gods know how many times that night. It was strange to think there had once been a time when he could count all their kisses on one hand.

“I don’t want this moment to end,” Kartik whispered pulling away from Aman's lips, holding him close. “I don’t want to attend any council I don’t want to meet with nobles. I want you to stay in my arms forever.”

Kartik could feel Aman’s smile and the mischief return to his eyes. Unfortunately, this resulted in him extricating himself from Kartik’s arms. 

If there was one thing - amongst a dozen others- that Kartik adored about Aman it was that as soon as he had gotten comfortable with his body around Kartik he had _no_ sense of modesty whatsoever. On one hand, it was wonderful, it gave Kartik a great opportunity to observe him unabashedly. On the other hand, however…

“What part of I want you in my arms _forever_ did you not understand?” he asked, exasperated. 

Aman was even putting his clothes back on. Though technically speaking they weren’t really _his_ clothes they were the garments Kartik had discarded before he had taken his bath. That did make Aman’s absence easier to bear, knowing that whatever he was going to he would do it would be while wearing Kartik’s clothes.

“Forever,” said Aman tying up the drawstrings of his - or rather Kartik’s - trousers. “Is an awfully long time and I don’t want us to starve.”

Kartik grinned as the realisation hit him.

“You mean it?” he asked. “What about the council meetings?”

  
“I couldn't care less”

Aman, disciplined Aman, stern Aman, punctual Aman, was willing to forgo court duties to spend time with him. For this alone, they would be branded irresponsible by the rest of the family. But they had worked so hard in the last few months, gone through so much, surely they deserved a break.

“Keshav and Devika are going to kill us,” said Kartik laughing. “Three days then?”

Aman rolled his eyes “Only one more”

“Three,” Kartik insisted.

“One,” countered Aman. 

“Three,”

“One”

“Three.”

“Three," said Aman. His confident expression crumbled as he realised his mistake.

Kartik gave a whoop of joy, raising both his arms in celebration.

Three days, three nights, together with no one else in the world. Three days and nights to speak of all that had been left unspoken, to make up for all the time they had lost together.

Unable to admit defeat Aman had the audacity to throw the now ripped curtain at Kartik’s face. Pushing it away swiftly Kartik laughed taking the time to watch as Aman put on Kartik’s undershirt. The garment was far too big for him, but it hung at his body in a languid elegant way that it made Kartik’s heart flutter. 

“What do you want to eat?” Aman said picking up Kartik’s discarded angrakha. “I would hazard a guess and say neither of us have had a proper meal since midday.”  
  


Kartik looked up at him “It’s fine. I’m not very hungry.”

Aman considered him once over then smiled sweetly “Kartik do you love me?”

“Yes of course.”

“Then you’re eating no questions asked. Now tell me what you want.”

“Will you be cooking?”

“As best as I can manage. I don’t want to disturb the cook unnecessarily.”

“Try not to burn the palace down,” suggested Kartik. “Perhaps I should come with you.”

“Dressed like that?” Aman questioned, eyeing Kartik’s bare body beneath the tangled sheets.

“I’m not dressed,”

“That’s the point.”

“You’re wearing _my_ clothes,” argued Kartik. He looked at the curtain. “I could wear this again.”

“I don’t trust it’s stability.”

“Or rather you don’t trust your hands.” this earned another piece of bedding being thrown at Kartik, this time one of the pillows that had fallen off the bed during their lovemaking. 

By the time he finished laughing he noted that Aman was trying to lace up the angrakha but kept fumbling with the knots.

Kartik sighed, got up, wrapping the curtain around his waist once more. Where Aman had lost all sense of modesty, Kartik had miraculously gained his own once more.

He helped Aman with the laces of his angrakha. 

“There you’re all ready for you little campaign,” Kartik looked back up to see Aman’s eyes an idea struck him. “Wait.”

He walked over to the vanity where he kept a box of kajal. He picked it up and came towards Aman.

“I had meant to do it at the Bahaduri when you went to fight Banaz,” he stated. “But I forgot.”

He took out the little stylus and dipped in the black ink.

“What is it?”

“Close your eyes,”

Aman did so readily. In precise practised motion Kartik lined Aman’s eyes with Kajal.

“It’s Akhtari tradition,” Kartik explained. “When our warriors went to war their loved one would paint kajal on their eyes. If it was done by a loved one it was said to give them more protection in battle.” Kartik smiled. “Before my mother died, whenever there was a campaign on the border and because most of them were away from families, the commanding officers under my father, would line up one by one and ask me to do their kajal for their family’s stead.” Kartik smiled. “Father would be the last to have his kajal done, and I would spend the most time on his. I used to think the more carefully I did it, the more protection he would have.”

Aman smiled at his words. “May our biggest battles be stealing food from our own kitchens.”

Kartik laughed as he painted the last stroke “Open your eyes.”

Aman did and Kartik dropped the stylus and the box of kajal. If Aman’s eyes were beautiful on a normal day they were absolutely breathtaking now. Bold, glittering and dark, deliciously dark. 

“What is it?”

“I want you to keep looking at me with those eyes of yours, I want you to take me back to bed and kiss me senseless. I want you to ravish me. I-”

He was cut off, unable to specify much more, as Aman looked up at him his eyes flashing. There was smirk at his lips as he walked closer to Kartik, bridging the gap the between.

And thus the tables were turned, Kartik found himself walking backwards. He was completely in Aman’s thrall as of this moment. Soon Aman’s hands were on his waist, his mouth on his own, soon they were as they had been earlier that evening. Kartik laying on his back, Aman on top kissing him.

But the moment was temporary, ephemeral like the distant scene of flowers. Aman stopped kissing him, he let go of Kartik, standing up. The knowing smirk was still on his face. Gods he could be so cruel. 

“Food first,” he announced. 

Kartik sat up in disbelief. “Brat.”

“I love you too prick.” he went to leave the room. 

As he held the door open, about to exit, he turned to Kartik, his beautiful dark kajal lined eyes staring back with nothing but unadulterated, unconditional love.

“Janhai so,” he whispered.

“Hamchal parashe,” came Kartik’s reply, as soft as a lark.

* * *

Here's the [playlist on YouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEGJBUf-v8A6QN1H4R7BlldO_Iz_O9Vr1)I really can't be fucked linking all the songs.

Songs: 

hoax (Taylor Swift) - Kartik pov for when Aman is talking to him

Afterglow (Taylor Swift) - Aman pov for when he reveals he does love kartik

Heart of Stone (Six) - General Vibes for the beginning

Laal Ishq (Arjit Singh)- Marriage 2.0

Yeh Dosti - Marriage 2.0

Raakh (Arjit Singh) - I imagine this playing after Aman says "I trust you"

Love Me Like You Do - no explanation

Only (Imagine Dragons)- for the days to follow

Mera Yaar (Bhaag Milkha Bhaag) - general vibes for the whole chapter

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anway i was too lazy to write my own poetry some of the wedding song is a mixture of Yeh Dosti and Laal Ishq
> 
> speaking of marriages 
> 
> I HOPE EVERYONE UNDERSTANDS WHY I SAY MEHAN HAS A SECOND MARRIAGE KINK NOW. THEY GOT ME TO PUT THE 2ND WEDDING IN WHEN I FIRST TOLD THEM THE OUTLINE AND IT WAS PURE GENIUS STROKE I COULDNT NOT INCLUDE IT.
> 
> ALSO READ THEIR FIC
> 
> BIGAMY
> 
> DEW EET
> 
> This was my first time writing semi-explicit sexual content (I was supposed to do this with Sunflower but chickened out last minute). I have tried to be respectful, have done my research and I have worked really hard to strike a nice balance between the sexual, poetic and humorous in this chapter. I hope it came through. The physical stuff was really annoying and hard to write but I hope it came across okay. None the less it's probably up there with my favourite chapters to write (ch 13 will always my ABSOLUTE favourite with ch 19 being a close second).
> 
> There were a lot of things that I wrote here which was very very personal to me so I was kinda scared about sharing this chapter. I share a lot of my experiences with these characters so it has taken a bit of a toll on my mental health.
> 
> which leads me to my next point
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTICE: So the beginning note kinda sounded like a goodbye I realise. And SUPRISE SURPRISE it kinda is a temporary one 👀 . This is probably a good time to let you all know I’m taking a smol break from TGM for a week or so. I need some time to detox, catch up on my Goodreads challenge (I’m 27 books behind my goal of 100) and I just need a week or maybe more where I don’t have to worry about updates, to not feel any pressure and to look after my mental health. 
> 
> THAT DOES NOT MEAN I DONT WANT COMMENTS OR DMS OR PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT IT. 
> 
> PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SPAM ME. I love spam.
> 
> But yes lemme know what you thought. Also if anyone can pinpoint exactly which Karman moment triggered the emergence of the Saapki I will give them a virtual duck.


	49. Of Family and Regicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys I suppose I’m kinda back. The next update will be irregularly scheduled too since I am kind of easing myself back into writing. Hopefully from then on updates will be more regular.
> 
> Updated today bc I know its the end of exams for some people and because TS JUST RELEASED HER NEW ALBUM AND MARVEL RELEASED ALL IT TRAILERS
> 
> I WANTED TO JOIN IN ON THE FUN.
> 
> Thank you for being very understanding through this much needed break. I however realign my sense of purpose for this fic and hopefully things would be more bearable this time around.
> 
> I’m hoping to finish it before uni bc 3rd year is gonna be hella fucking tough. 
> 
> Also for all those who don’t follow my insta the moment that the Saapki emerged was when Aman says: “My Lover, My Friend, My King”. Sadly none but Mehan got it right.
> 
> Also thank you to Dhyan for the one chair thing.
> 
> Who needs the one bed trope when you can have the one chair trope.
> 
> ALSO IDK WHAT I WROTE IM SURE HALF OF IT IS PURE CRACK AND FLUFF. i didnt have time to edit
> 
> take 🔫

You have your own dreams

They all lie in the edge of a knife

From whom do you need to hear the words

“My friend, you’ve wasted your life”

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Devika was going to kill them. Both of them. It did not matter if they were kings or not. She was going to do it. She had reason to believe that Keshav would not mind in joining her little dalliance in regicide - figuratively of course. 

For three days she and Keshav had been forced to take on primary roles in Kartik and Aman’s absence. 

Though Keshav himself had not said a word about Kartik and Aman’s situation Devika could tell that he was at the very least mildly irritated. She did not blame him. She felt the same, if you replaced ‘mildly’ with ‘intensely’. Especially since she and Keshav were the only two advisors who were left to look over the administration, as Parvaaz, Kaali and Rajni were in Kashatr.

If she hated paperwork before, she hated it all the more now. 

If one good thing had come out of this it was that Keshav and Devika had started speaking to each other more often. While she had worked with Keshav before on courtly matters she could not say that they were truly friends. But now it seemed as if she had found a brother in him. It had been more than she dared hope for when Kartik and Aman first married.

He was kind, sweet, passioned and utterly devoted to his work. She could talk to him for hours on end about anything and everything, whether it was things that were bothering her, personal matters or things she had never thought she had an interest in before. She could speak to him of it freely without judgement.

At first she had not understood why Nasireh had latched onto to Keshav so easily. She had initially thought they were merely smitten with the young scholar. Perhaps they _were_ still very much smitten, but Devika understood there to be more to it. Once one got to know Keshav there was an irresistible urge to keep talking to him and protect him from all dangers, even if those dangers were no where to be seen.

It was because of this Devika had taken up most of the paperwork. The past three days were spent on reorganising schedules, meeting with nobles and going through petitions, which the kings had kindly abandoned without a care for the world. While it would have been manageable between the two of them Devika had decided that since Keshav was more than busy with the newly discovered books in the library she was obliged to not let him do much more than a handful of the work each day. He was busy enough as it were.

With most of the paperwork being hers, most of the anger also resided in her. No one else seemed to particularly care, they went on with their day as if nothing had occurred. When it was mentioned it was spoken of with sly eyes and a knowing smile by the servants. It was treated with mild amusement if anything.

Devika had to it admit it was comical considering the the initial dread, three days ago, when neither Kartik nor Aman had turned up for their evening meal with the family. She wanted to laugh at her fear. She wanted to laugh at the very thought of them causing each other harm, as she had once thought. It had in the end been unwarranted. 

The family had eaten in silence that night, watching the empty seats waiting. The dread had spread over the whole room that night, the conversation becoming more and more sparse. The same thought had been on everyone’s mind but no one had wanted to voice it. 

It was Champa who had first spoken, broken through the haze of fear. . 

“Do you think they are alright?” she whispered. 

No one had responded. But the dread had only worsened. Neither Kartik nor Aman had been seen since noon. No one could watch them together and not see the red eyes, the eyes filled with fear, the anger simmering between them. All could see clearly they had been on the verge of breaking apart. 

Devika remembered wondering whether their marriage held something far more sinister beneath their show of unity. In her fear and dread the more she thought about it the more it had made sense, Aman’s acceptance of the marriage despite his hatred, Kartik’s insistence on seeing the sunset, it was almost as if he thought he was to die…

_A deal,_ she had thought. _A deal of death. If Aman killed him on the morrow he would avenge his father, he would also gain both kingdoms since the marriage would be legalised in accordance to Akhtari custom._

Devika had stood abruptly, he hand going to the dagger Kartik had gifted her on her seventeenth birthday. A pretty thing, ceremonial more than anything, but it was sharp and would do the job if need be. She saw that she did not stand alone, Sunaina had stood too, steel in her eyes along with Kusum, with a determined expression that Devika had never seen before.

They had said not a word to each other. They did not have to. Together they walked towards the chambers where Kartik and Aman slept. Devika hoped it was not too late.

When the three of them had entered the hallway that lead to their rooms, however, they were stopped by the guards.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you are not permitted to enter.”

Sunaina had frowned “And why not?”

“The King’s orders.”

“Which King?” Devika had asked.

“The Mahanite king, they are-”

“I demand to see them.” Sunaina had interrupted. 

The guard had turned red. “I would advise against it.”

It was here that Devika noticed that the guards that usually stood at the door, now stood at a fair distance. A distance that would not have allowed them to hear what was going on inside, not if the door was closed and locked as it had been then. 

She had been about to walk towards the door, smash it open if need be when it opened on its own accord. From openking emerged the figure of Aman, he was looking back into his chambers smiling. It was here that she noticed he was wearing Kartik’s clothes. Devika also understood then why the guards kept their distance. A few whispered words escaped his lips. Devika had only managed to catch them.

_Janhai so._

Ancient Mahanite. _My soul is yours._

She heard the faint reply too. Kartik’s voice, undeniably still alive. 

_Hamchal Parashe._

Ancient Akhtari. _Your soul is in my heart._

Devika felt nothing but relief in hearing his voice. She felt her whole body relax. After the relief came the embarrassment. Embarrassment at the thought that Aman could even try and kill Kartik, the man he so clearly loved. Embarrassment at being here in a moment that was evidently not meant for her ears.

Aman closed the door behind him. For a moment he closed his eyes, leaning back against the door, his shoulders relacing, the largest in grin blooming slowly on his face, enraptured in some sort of secret bliss. He stood there, so full of life, so happy so godamned careless Devika was not sure she had seen him like this before. 

There had been a time when she had not understood why Kartik loved Aman as much as he did. But this small glimpse of Aman unguarded and happy made her understand. _If this is the Aman that Kartik sees I am happy for him._

When he opened eyes she also saw the kajal lining his eyes. It was by Kartik’s hand, she recognised it only because she had spent countless hours sitting by Kartik’s side as he had lined kajal over the eyes of all the commanding officers and his father before they had all gone off to war.

The affect the kajal had on Aman’s eyes were almost devastating. It was however allayed by the look of embarrassment that had crept up onto his features as he saw them. He looked like a little boy being caught in the act of stealing.

“Hello,” he greeted, almost shyly, walking up to them. “My apologies for our absence I hope all is well.”

“We were all worried.” said Sunaina, the relief palpable in her voice.

“Yes I was...we…” he paused. “I was going to go make some food.”

“Is everything better now?” asked Kusum. “How is Kartik?”

Aman smiled “Yes, infinitely better. Kartik is asleep.”

Or rather not decently dressed to receive them, since Aman had been standing before them in his clothes. 

“I was going to make food,” he repeated awkwardly.

“You don’t know how to cook,” said Sunaina. “Not properly.”

“I’ll think of something,” he had assured. “It is nearing midnight you should all be asleep.”

Sunaina had taken his hand then. “Let me help you.”  
  


“You?”

“Yes me, I did not spend half my life helping the war-time kitchens and not learn how to cook.”

“I know a thing or two about cooking,” said Kusum. “When I still lived with my father I would always stand by the cooks and watch them, sometimes I would help. They would give me treats in return.”

Devika had no experience in cooking but she shrugged not wanting to be left out. Besides she knew Kartik’s favourite foods as well as anyone else. 

“I can read the ingredients out if need be.” she said.

Aman shot them all a grateful look. “Thank you,” he had managed out.

The four of them had spent their time in the kitchens for the next hour so. Under their guidance, Aman had learned to cook a few dishes, which seemed to have sustained both him and Kartik for the three days that came.

Three whole days. 

She remembered being angered at the announcement that came the morning after. She could understand taking half a day off, to sleep in after a night making amends for a week of fighting. But three days? It was almost as if they had been fighting for six months instead of a week. 

She supposed she could have gotten over her annoyance after all while. She always did. And one day she would forgive them for it. But it seemed today would not be that day, for it just happened to be the day that Ravi, High Priest of Okhine was sitting before her in the council room awaiting an explanation on why the kings were yet again late.

Devika was not sure how she could politely word the fact that they were most likely fucking each other to truly give a fuck about being kings for even a moment.

“Are they busy?” asked Ravi after a minute of silence.

“In a way,” she said shuffling through the papers trying to keep her face as emotionless as possible. 

“It must be rather important,” remarked Ravi, trying to keep the conversation going. “You seem to have been left with all the paperwork.”

“How do you know that this is not the usual amount of the paperwork I get?” she asked.

“They are clearly petitions addressed to the _kings_ and you seem more pissed off than last time we met.”

“You are rather observant for a priest.”

Ravi’s cheeks burned, as if he had given too much away, he cleared his throat and said “Would you like me to help you while we wait? They should be here any minute. Ther servants said their little...honeymoon period would last three days and I’m sure you have sent for a servant to get them as soon as you heard news of my arrival.”

“You knew?” Devika scowled. “You could have told me you knew about _that_.”

“Servants talk I listen.” Ravi grinned. “Besides it was far more amusing to see you grapple with a good explanation for their absence.”

“How long before the whole nation knows?” she grumbled.

“I’d give it a few days. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it becomes a tradition of sorts in the years to come, for couples to have three days of celebrations after six months of marriage.”

Devika shook her head. Even their idiocy was being sanctified, glorified, deified. She could only hope that this new found almost godlike status would not go to their heads.

“May I help?” Ravi asked again. “Or are all these confidential matters.”

“They are _not_ confindential,” said Devika. “But I would be a terrible advisor if I let anyone else look at these petitions. Even if you are a priest of Okhine.” seeing that he seemed a little hurt by her denying his help she quickly added. “It would be nice to have some company, however, as I work through these. I am driving myself insane with silence”

Ravi relaxed himself in the seat and looked at her. “As you wish.”

His eyes seemed to fill with so much light that they burned. In that moment Devika wanted nothing more than to reach out and bring him towards her, to feel his lips against hers. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him senseless. She did not know why, but the way he had said it. _As you wish_ had made her feel something.

She must have sat there like love-struck idiot, for Ravi had to hand her the next of the petitions, petitions she had momentarily forgotten about. She took the parchment from him, their fingers touching. Her breath hitched.

If silence was driving her to insanity, Ravi’s presence was only sealing it. 

The gods knew what would have happened next if Kartik and Aman had not decided to arrive. Both of them were laughing over something one of them had said. Kartik had his arm around Aman. They stopped short when they saw Ravi and Devika. Kartik gave her a knowing grin.

It was here that Devika realised her fingers were still touching Ravi’s. She hastily pulled away from assuming a stern expression. 

“Are we interrupting?” asked Kartik. “I thought we were summoned here. Ruined a perfectly good sleep too when the servant came knocking on our door.”

Devika narrowed her eyes at him “It’s nearly noon and you’ve had three days to rest.”

“Do you really think we spent those days resting?” asked Kartik his grin growing wider. 

He was not even ashamed of it. In fact, he did not even bother to hide the red marks at his neck. He wore them like a badge of honour. 

Devika rolled her eyes “You Kartik Singh disgust me.”

“Kartik Singh _Tripathi_ ,” he said proudly. “Aman why is it t that everyone seems to forget our wedding. You would think it is the biggest event of the century? No?”

Beside Kartik Aman was turning red. A part of Devika found his embarrassment rather amusing to watch, mostly because his features were usually an impenetrable fortress of coldness, seeing him like this was almost a breathing in fresh air for the first time. 

“And it seems,” said Aman extricating himself from Kartik’s hold maintaining a professional distance as best as he could. “You have quite forgotten who married us in the first place.” he walked up to Ravi to greeting him sitting on the council table with them. “My apologies for the delay and the impropriety in our conduct. Welcome again to Shafaq.”

“Impropiety,” Kartik gave an exaggerated mimicry of Aman’s clipped tone. “You shouldn’t be one to talk about impropriety.”

Devika barely stifled a laugh, as Aman turned impossibly more red. A war of emotions were so visible on his face anger, basfulness, tinged with wisftulness.

“Shut up,” Aman muttered.

This convinced her more than anything that things were returning to normal. 

“Many congratulations on the six months of marriage,” said Ravi, coolly, as if they were only discussing the weather. “If I am correct, it solidifies the marriage in Akhtari customs does it not?”

“Thank you,” said Kartik sitting down on the council table. “And yes it does. Though I understand you are not here to merely give your congratulations.”

“Last I came,” said Ravi. “We discussed the matter of an heir.”

“That is something we would like to discuss with you too,” said Kartik. “Though you may not find it very pleasing.”

“We are not ready to raise a child,” said Aman. “Maybe in a year or two but not now. We would like to respectfully decline to take on a child of the gods, for now.”

“I quite recall that you were adamant about the matter of an heir when the topic was last broached.” said Ravi. 

“We talked about during the past three days,” said Kartik. “We are not yet suited to make good parents.”

“You would make wonderful parents,” Devika found herself saying. For she heard underneath his words the ones he truly wanted to speak.

_We do not wish to be like our own fathers._

“I do not doubt it,” Kartik looked at Aman then as he said it. “But there is a time and place for everything and this is not the time. If the last week or so has taught anything it is that we are still volatile. There are still things we need to work through before we even consider an heir. I do not think adding the responsibility of a child would be beneficial, neither for us or the child in question. The countries are at peace are they not? I belive there is no reason to rush this as our ancestors had once done.”

“I think for too long both monarchies have been forced to raise children, force them to grow up too fast and shoulder more than they were supposed. A steady dynasty for both monarchies at time of war came at the cost of lost love, lost childhoods and lost innocence.” Aman looked at Ravi. “Neither of us want our child to be forced into anything too soon. Especially since there is no need for it.”

“And what if something happens to both of you before you chose an heir?” asked Ravi.

“Then,” said Kartik. “We trust the priests of Okhine to chose the next monarch of these combined nations for us.”

“We are truly sorry, we know you came all this way seemingly for nought.” said Aman. “But we do not want to take our chances.”

“There is not need to apologise,” Ravi smiled. “This decision of yours more than anything convinces me that one day you will make excellent parents when the time does come.”

“Will you be leaving?” Devika found herself asking.

“I really have not much else to do,” admitted Ravi reluctantly.

Devi felt her heart sink a little. A part of her, a larger part of her than she would like to admit. Kartik seemed to notice.

“We could use your help here,” said Kartik hastily. “That is if you are willing.”

“The temples are in disrepair here,” continued Aman, seeming to pick up Kartik’s train of thought. “Who better than a High Priest to help see to their restoration.”

Ravi smiled then and Devika hoped, beyond reason perhaps that smile was for her. That he would stay. She waited, the next few seconds were agony.

“I would be more than honoured.” came Ravi’s reply. 

Aman stood from beside Kartik and turned to Ravi “Allow me to show you to your quarters, you must have had a tiring journey.”

“Thank you,” he said. 

It was here that Devika noticed that every inch of Ravi body was laden with fatigue. She cursed herself for not noticing earlier.

“You should join us for a meal this evening,” said Aman addressing Ravi before turning to Kartik. “Will you take on the preparation for the meal? I think mother would appreciate a break after having to organise them for the last three days.”

“Of course,” Kartik smiled. 

Aman bent over kissing Kartik’s cheek. A public display intimacy that was not uncommon from Kartik’s end, but had been rarely seen from Aman. A smile graced Kartik’s face at that moment. His eyes followed Aman as he walked out of the door.

Ravi seemed about to say something to Devika but refrained, following Aman out. 

Devika watched him leave, her eyes following him, watching the lines of his back shifting under the black robes of a high priest. _Damn the gods for making you so beautiful. Damn the gods for claiming you as their own._

She turned to Kartik who was still watching the door smiling dreamily. She suspected that if the palace had been burning down he probably would not have noticed.

“Kartik,” she announced. “You are completely and utterly hen-pecked.”

As if she had not been doing the same only moments ago. 

Kartik shook himself out of his trance “What?”

“I said that is a beautiful triangle at your neck.”

Kartik’s hand went to the triangle in question, precise and perfect, at his neck “Thank you,”

“Congratulations on learning basic geometry,” she said dryly.

Kartik smiled smugly and simply rolled his right sleeve up to reveal a beautiful rendered drawing of Noor. Devika found herself looking at it with awe.

“You did this yourself?” she asked tracing the lines.

“Aman.” explained Kartik. “A present of sorts.”

“Was this the only present?” the drawing was beautiful to be sure but Kartik had written Aman a whole epic, she did not think it was a good exchange.

Kartik’s smug smile turned dreamy “No.”

He did not elaborate and judging from Kartik’s expression Devika was not inclined to ask for details. She knew exactly what he was talking about. 

“I swear to the gods, sometimes you both act more like newlyweds than a couple who have been married for months.”

“We _are_ technically newlyweds according to our own customs. You should know this Devi.”

“You spent three whole days in your chambers, Kartik, tell me that’s not something newly-weds do.”

“We did not spend all that time...doing... _that_ ” Kartik turned red. 

“No only a fair amount of it,” teased Devika.

Kartik’s sheepish expression remained but it took on traces of an emotion that was a little more serious, a little more forlorn. 

“We never had a honeymoon you know,” he whispered. “Not like most couples. The day after we wed...a delegation arrived from Eskabad. From then on it was straight to work with no reprieve. We had to be kings for so long and it took a toll on us. It was nice to simply be Kartik and Aman. Not kings, just us. Humans. It was nice to be a little selfish after being selfless for so long. It was nice even if it was for only three days,” he grinned. “I think my favourite parts were when he would take his sitar and sit by our window and compose. He has such a beautiful expression when he writes and plays music. He wrote me a song.”

“What is it called?” 

“He gave it no name, not yet.”

Devika could see that his mind was still lost in the bliss that the last three days had brought.

“Your brain has been addled.” said Devika. 

“And yours has not?” asked Kartik. “I see the way you look at Ravi. I have never seen you like this with any other man.”

She could not deny Kartik’s observation. She did not know how it came to be but she had come to care for Ravi beyond the feelings one would associate with a friend and acquaintance. So she shrugged and said:

“It can never be, no matter my feelings or his. He is a priest.”

“I told you getting the room with the balcony in Khorshid would turn you into a tragic romantic,”

“Are you here to explain the dynamics concerning balconies or will you help me fix my broken heart?”

Devika had said it lightly but there was part of her heart that meant it in earnest. Kartik seemed to notice that too, he always did.

“Priests no longer practice celibacy,” he told her. “You could have him. No one would stop you.”

“I don’t want…” she paused. “The priests are not allowed to get attached, they are married unto their gods, especially high priests. I don’t…”

She did not want only Ravi’s touch. She wanted all of him, his love, his family his laughter. She wanted his dreary moments filled with sorrow, she wanted his bright ones brimming with laughter. She wanted early morning and late nights, his deepest darkest thoughts and his brightest dreams. If she was to have him, she would have all of him.

Perhaps some would say she had fallen too fast and too hard for him. She did not see this as the case. She knew ever since the days in Kashtar when they had first met, that he was the only man she considered her equal, the only man who understood her, her friends not withstanding. 

She had never wanted to marry, the very thought seemed like a shackle, a noose. But with Ravi it all seemed different.

“Aman and I could help,” said Kartik. “You did teach him how to cook. It helped us survive the last three days. It’s the least I can do.”

“It was more Sunaina and Kusum,” Devika admitted. “I was relegated to the corner to make conversation rather than food.”

“Still you’re my best friend Devi. I would go above and beyond if being with Ravi makes you happy.”

“You may be king, Kartik, but you can’t overturn religious doctrines,” she reminded him. “Only an assembly of all high priests of every god could do that.” The gods had given their priests the power to change rules regarding service to the gods in order to suit the political and social climate, granted that they did change the central teachings of their religions. ”I doubt they would change for us. I doubt Ravi would be willing to change the rules for me.”

“I would tear down this whole world for Aman,” said Kartik. “I would anything and everything for him.”

“No, you would not.” she said definitely. “Even _you_ have your limits. Neither you or Aman would endanger our people, even if it meant losing each other. Just like that Ravi and I have our limits. I will not leave your side, and he will not abandon the responsibility of High Priest.”

“You could always elope, keep it a secret. Aman and I could help?”

“How will you do it? By botching it?”

“Aman and I could get horses, we could provide you with money and means to-”

“And in the ended you two will get caught and I will be left behind, with the horse to make my own way to Ravi.” she grinned. “I will never work.”

“My offer still stands,” he said. “Should the need ever arise.”

They laughed then and Devika realised just how much she had missed his laughter. She had after all gone ten days without hearing it.

~~~

After three days of what one could only assume were filled with idleness Kartik and Aman threw themselves into their work with more fervour than she had thought them capable of. As such Sunaina did not see them until the whole family were gathered for the evening meal. And though she was beyond glad that they had stopped fighting, she had noticed that they were not the only ones who had made amends. 

Chaman and Champa had gotten closer, so close that she could almost see glimpses of their old selves, the two lovers who had eloped all those years ago on a high summer’s night. She knew not what had caused them to separate neither did she know what had finally allowed them to let go of the past and come together again. For all her efforts in trying to bring them back together, she found she did not care, it did not matter. The colour she had wanted had finally returned to her family. That was all she had ever wanted since Shankar’s death.

Around her the conversation buzzed, it stood in stark contrast to only nine months ago, before Aman had gone to Kashatr. It was gold and starlight compared to the bleakness of the last ten years. 

Kusum was happily speaking with Keshav, Nasireh most likely speaking of Rajni’s letter which had come today. Chaman and Champa were lost unto a world of their own, holding hands under the table whispering like young lovers in the early stages of their relationship. Devika and Qabid were engaged in a debate next to Sunaina. She herself was sitting by content in simply watching and taking it all in. 

Though all the food had been laid out none of it had been touched. They had decided to wait until the kings arrived, who it seemed were running late. Sunaina kept a firm eye on the door, waiting for them to come.

In the end the door did open but it was neither king who entered, but rather Ravi. Sunaina had always seen him in the height of his power so it was strange to see him now, in a simple black kurta rather than his priestly robes, and bone jewellery. It was strange to see him stand awkwardly by the door, rather than stand tall and firm upon the steps of the Okhine temple. He looked like a boy, he looked like his age. He could not have been more that twenty-three. 

Sunaina found herself wondering how he had become the high priest at such a young age.

_The same way Aman and Kartik became kings._ Said a voice. The thought made her heart sink.

“I was invited-” started Ravi.

Sunaina stood up and smiled “Yes I know you were invited to dine with us. Come take a seat. Don’t feel so embarrassed, there is an old doctrine in Mahan. Who so eats at one table is considered family.” she walked over and led him towards the table. “I would be more than honoured to invite you into this family.”

“Thank you,” he managed out.

She sat him beside Devika for she could not help but note the young woman’s smile had turned softer at his presence. Almost instantly Devika drew him into the argument she was having with Qabid about some law or another. Surprisingly, Ravi sided with the old man, which only served to vex Devika furhter.

“Where are Kartik and Aman?” asked Nasireh after a few minutes. “I thought their little celebration was over?”

“They were in the library last I checked,” said Keshav. “They had volunteered to take on all the paperwork of the last three days. To make amends for the absence. They should be here by now though, I do not think the paperwork should have taken that long, in all honesty, Devi had gone through most of it.”

“You helped,” Devika reminded him turning away from Qabid and Ravi. “It wasn’t just me.”

“You took on the brunt of it,” said Keshav. 

“You have to sort out things in the library it is the least I can do.”

“Should I go get them?” suggested Nasireh.

As soon as they had spoken the door of the dining room opened again. Aman entered first, he walked with the carelessness that had been so characteristic of his childhood that it brought a smile to Sunaina’s face. Behind him Kartik came in flushed adjusting the collar of his sherwani. The both gave those assembled a sheepish smile. 

“Good evening,” said Kartik. “Sorry about the delay we were busy with work.”

“If you hadn’t disappeared for three days,” said Nasireh. “There would not be so much.”

Aman grinned “It was worth every second. But enough of that I’m hungry and sick of my own cooking.”

Aman walked to where he usually sat. He frowned and turned to Kartik. 

“You sent the order for the chairs,” he said lightly. “We’re one short.”

Kartik too frowned “It seems have made a counting error.”

“No shit.” came Devika’s reply. “Mathematics was never your strongest subject.”

Ravi rose, apparently to offer his chair for use, but Kartik gestured for him to sit down. 

“Shall I call one of the servants to bring in a chair?” suggested Champa

Kartik shook his head. “They’ve already done enough.”

“I’ll stand,” Aman offered. “I don’t mind.”

“No one is standing,” insisted Kartik. 

“Gods be good, you can’t possibly expect us to sit on the same chair,” said Aman. 

The glint in Kartik’s eyes said otherwise he turned to the others “That is if no one else is bothered by it.”

“Let us hope this ingenious plan of yours doesn’t end in disaster,” said Qabid. 

“My plans never end in disaster.” insisted Kartik.

“May I remind you that only two years ago your plan to do the figure eight with the Ghor-Sivar ended with both of us in Qabid’s quarters” started Nasireh.

“And your plan with the Eskabadi beer,” Aman reminded him. “I had to carry you to our rooms you lost one hundred coins to Rajni.”

“This plan is nothing like any of those plans,” Kartik promised.

“What if the chair breaks?” asked Kusum.

Kartik shrugged “Then it breaks.” he gestured for Aman to sit on the chair. “After you.”

Warily Aman sat down on the chair, his arms tense on the arm rest, in anticipation of what Kartik may do next. In a matter of seconds Kartik has positioned himself on Aman’s lap. Sunaina half expected Aman to push him away, and perhaps months ago Aman may have done just that. He never liked to have anyone in his personal space.

But the young king only smiled, his arms wrapping themselves around Kartik’s waist drawing him closer “I have half a suspicion that you orchestrated all this just so you could sit on my lap.”

“I thought we made it clear that you were the orchestrator and I was the improviser.”

“I beg to differ. You are both idiots,” said Devika sipping her wine. “And annoying ones at that.”

Kusum snorted in response almost choking on her water in the process.

Sunaina decided this was the best moment to divert their attention to other matters.

“When will you be going to Kashatr?” she asked turning to Aman and Kartik. “It is to my understanding that you will be going to select an heir in two weeks time”

“That will be postponed for at least year,” said Kartik. “You were right Mother, there is no need to rush this. Ravi however will be staying to help with the temples.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aman. “I know you have always wanted grandchildren and-”

“Do not be sorry,” she assured. “I have all the family I need right now.”

They may not all be there but her family was more complete than it had ever been. 

~~~

Rajni, Parvaaz and Kaali had taken to having their evening meals together, exchanging stories and memories from home. As always when they visited Kashatr they had refused the offer of being housed in the villages, settling themselves comfortably in their tents. 

She was sitting with Parvaaz in her own tent, waiting for Kaali to arrive so that they could begin eating. Over the past few weeks she had come to be closer to Parvaaz and learned more about the intricacies of the Balkari language than she had ever wished to know. Not that she was complaining, Parvaaz had a way of relaying information that made it seem exciting.  
  
“How was school today?” she asked him, as a mother might ask her child. 

“I’ve moved up a grade,” announced Parvaaz.

If Rajni was playing the role of a mother, Parvaaz had outperformed her in the role of a studious schoolboy. He had been taking up studies with the children, for this he felt was the best way to study the language. Though he was forty, older than her by more than a decade, he studied and learned with the same zeal of a child on their first day of school.

Rajni smiled at his achievement, then, in a very unmotherly manner, she announced: “Let us drink to it.”

Taking the goblets she poured them both wine. Handing him one of them, she raised her won goblet.

“To your achievements in Balkari.” she toasted. “And to the future generations of school children who will curse you for it.”

He raised his own glass in response, and so they drank.

As Parvaaz lowered his glass he asked “How is Mandhav?”

“Same old,” she said. “He does the work that I give him. Progress on the repairs is going well.”

“Something bothers you about it though doesn’t it?”

“He’s too quiet,” she admitted. “He does not speak, he does not fight. He takes it all with complacency, with pride. As if this will nothing in the grand scheme of things. Like he’s…”

“Biding his time?” offered Parvaaz.

“Yes, just like that. I hate it. I wish Kartik had let us kill him. I wish he were dead.”

“Death is not a solution to every problem or crime,” he muttered sagely. 

“No you’re right,” she admitted, sighing she put down the wine. “Parvaaz I just want to go back home.”

She did miss home. She missed her father’s stories and songs. She missed her mothers embraces and nagging. She missed talking and drinking with Keshav. She missed teasing Kartik and Aman. She missed her Aunt’s calm presence. She missed the presence of her newfound friends, Devika and Nasireh. And Kusum…

She missed Kusum so much that it hurt.

She missed her smile. The smell of her hair, the feeling of her skin against her own, he lips, her laughter. He kind bright eyes. All she had of her were letters and the embroidered sash she had sent from Shafaq. The one with the sunflowers, a reminder of their first kiss in the sunflower fields.

She could not wait to go back. She looked at Parvaaz now and noticed the same sadness, the same longing lay within him.

“You must miss home too.” she said. 

“I do,” Parvaaz smiled. “It’s strange I always thought of Khorshid as home but I think that if I go back there now it would feel...empty. It would not longer be home.”

“You have taken up Shafaq as a new home then?”

“No,” he said. “Home for me will be wherever the people are wherever everyone else is. Without them, without our family, I think this world would be an empty place.”

Rajni smiled, she understood. Chandan was the home of her childhood but Shafaq was something more now. 

_Our family._

Those had been Parvaaz’s words and he was not wrong. Somehow during the past six months, all of them had been able to walk over potential rifts and forge a family where enmity should have been.

“What will you do when we go back?” she asked.

“Embrace every one there,” he answered. “Talk for hours and hours on end, read all the new books Keshav had found.” he looked down. “You only realise how much people mean to you when you leave them. You have to hold them close while you can.”

Rajni considered “I think when I go back I will ask Kusum to marry me.”

Parvaaz grinned “It is about time. I must thank you, first and foremost, Devika and I were placing bets on this. I seem to have won.”

“I am glad to be of assistance,” proclaimed Rajni. “Though a part of me fears that it may be too soon.”

“Kartik and Aman met only three times before they wed. Four times, if you consider _Two Kings_ to be an accurate retelling of their first meeting.”

“I do not doubt his accuracy,” said Rajni thinking of the many times she had walked in on them during the most inopportune moments. “Aman was certainly not in his _own_ bed that night.”

Parvaaz laughed.

“Whatever they may ore may not have done I’m glad it created this.” he said. “When you marry Kusum do you plan on following Mahanite custom?”

“No,”

Ever since she had seen Kartik and Aman’s wedding she knew she could not simply follow only the Mahanite ceremony. For better or for worse Akhtar was her nation too. She had planned it every detail of their wedding in her head. The music vows, the songs and the dresses. She herself would wear a gown of orange and gold while Kusum wore one of pink and silver. She did not know why those specific colours, they just felt right.

“We will marry as my cousin did,” she said. “In both Mahanite and Akhtari customs.”

Parvaaz raised his glass towards her “Let us drink then to your upcoming nuptials and to a future filled with peace and unity.”

Rajni had only just brought the goblet to her lips when Kaali burst into the tent breathless. He looked at them furtively, desperately. He seemed to want to tell them something, but was unable to get the words out. She and Parvaaz both both stood taking in his wretched state. He doubled over stumbling to his knees. He seemed about to weep.  
  
“Kaali?” Parvaaz questioned walking towards him, helping him rise.

“Mandhav” the other man breathed out. “Mandhav has escaped.”

____

[Little White Lies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgXRgbACAxw) (1D) - Kartik and Devika thinking about Aman and Ravi respectively

[The Dont Know About Us](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=unTus4ukPB0) (1D) - for obvious reasons

[I Think He Knows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCplkeihfTQ) (Taylor Swift) - for Ravi and Devi

[Lover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMtN4sOvhqY) (Taylor Swift) - General Vibes

[Chedkhaniyan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eu_81ewUBsQ) \- General Vibes

[Call it What You Want](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V54CEElTF_U) (Taylor Swift)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aM I GONAA REFERENCE THE MOVIE POSTER AGAIN LIKE THE GHORI BUT THIS TIME THE ONE WITH THEM SITTING ON THE CHAIR.
> 
> YES 
> 
> OK
> 
> BYE


	50. A Crown of Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't kill a character I swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi.

It is easy to say you would die for love

When it burns and takes your breath away

Yet when it demands, you stand and fight

You can only hope that it will not give sway

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Two weeks had passed since Aman had let go of his vengeance, two weeks since he had told Kartik of his love. The shackles had been broken, they had been lifted from his whole being, he was finally free. But the demons remained, lurking ready to rise at any moments.

There were still moments when he wondered whether he had made the right decision. Moments when he wondered what his father would think of him. Had he disgraced himself, by loving the man who had killed his father, by giving himself wholly to him, mind, body, soul?

And that was all they were and all they would be. _Moments_ , nothing more. Yet neither would they be anything less, they were still thoughts, real ones, ones he could no shake away easily. Nasireh was right. The path he took was not an easy one, but he was glad he took it. Because every time he saw Kartik’s smile, it was like that if a glorious sunrise and dispelled the darkness that lay within him. Aman knew it would continue to do so for the rest of their lives. 

It was evening now and they were sitting by the banks of the Lake of Poets, the guards posted in the distance. They had just finished swimming, after a day of tedious meetings and paperwork. Aman had decided to stay true to his promise and was teaching Kartik how to swim. 

His lover was gaining more skill as the days went by and Aman was beyond proud of his progress. Yet he still could not find it in him to trust Kartik not to drown himself. As such he had kept a firm eye on his husband every time he was in the water. Kartik often joked that he looked like he wanted to bed him then and there. But Aman had almost lost him once before, by his own volition, through vengeance. No one else, nothing else was allowed to take Kartik away from him. He was not going to take any chances. 

They had already changed into drier clothes, Kartik’s sherwani still open from the front, his linen undershirt flutter in the cool breeze as he lay with his head on Aman’s lap, Gabru dozing peacefully on Kartik’s stomach. All the while Aman was weaving stray flowers, white roses, together, fashioning them into a crown adorning his husband’s brow. His fingers had been pricked a thousand times over, but he could not care less. Every time he looked down at Kartik he knew he would face a thousand rose thorns, to see him like this again, even if it was a small glimpse. 

He looked heavenly in the gold rush of the evening sun, his eyes half-closed, the white roses adorning his hair. It would be not blasphemy to say that Kartik looked like a god, a mythical thing, a being more divine than human. 

_And he could have had anyone? Anyone else in this world, yet he is mine. What did I do to deserve him?_

Aman had never seen himself as a possessive lover. In fact, he had always thought himself careless at best, cruel at his worst. But with Kartik it was different and a part of him hated himself for it.

He was not new to the feeling of jealousy, when it came to Kartik, had always noticed that many people would admire Kartik from afar. Now, however, now that Kartik was securely his, in every way possible, the feeling of jealousy only seemed to have increased. He knew in his heart of hearts Kartik would never betray him like that, his love was too boundless too infinite to even consider the possibility of infidelity. 

No, what grated him was that someone else would even have the audacity to even consider looking at Kartik the way they did. 

Yesterday, for example, a young merchant from the South of Akhtar had come in order to discuss a possible trade route with continents of the east. The grating feeling had merely gotten more intense as the talks went by and the merchant’s eyes were constantly on Kartik. He looked as if he would die for Kartik's touch. When the merchant had left Aman had taken Kartik by the collar and kissed him senseless then and there in the throne room. If only to remind himself it was him and only him who had the privilege of doing this.

Kartik had noticed the underlying emotions as he always did. He let the passion run its course before extracting himself from Aman.

“I haven’t seen you kiss with such anger before," he had said. "At least not since our first swordfight. Not that I’m complaining I think it’s a great outlet, the best outlet. But...what’s wrong?”

So Aman had explained the burgeoning jealousy that was slowly building in him. Kartik had teased him, joked about it and even admitted to his own jealousy regarding Nasireh. But most importantly they talked it through. They were surprisingly good at that now, talking about things, nipping doubts at the bud, keeping their tree of love healthy and growing. If these six months of a terrible communication had taught them anything it was to listen to each other and take everything in its stride.

While Aman was able to temper that possessive urge, it had no gone away entirely even. Even no as his hands weaved more flowers into Kartik’s hair, his mind whispered.

_Mine, mine, mine._

Almost as if he were hearing Aman's thoughts Kartik’s eyes fluttered open. Neither had so far spoken in the last half hour, passing the time in the golden silence that was each other’s company. 

Kartik’s placid expression was transformed into one that was far more stern, with those parted lips and furrowed brow. He looked Aman as if he were a particularly interesting line in a poem, or a brilliant stroke in a painting, or poignant note in a song. As if he were an exquisite piece of art that needed to be analysed and admired. 

“What is it?” Aman asked.

“It doesn’t feel real,” Kartik whispered.

“What doesn’t?”

“This. You. Me. Us.” Kartik tilted his chin upwards, he smiled, but somehow even his smile could not truly change the sternness that lay beneath every movement. “Sometimes I’m afraid that if I close my eyes I would lose you. That I’d wake up and that this was some elaborate fever dream.”

Aman’s hand’s strayed from the crown of white roses, they brushed against Kartik’s temples, his cheeks before burying themselves in his beard. Aman bent over and kissed his husband’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, then finally his lips. He let the last kiss linger, as soft as a moth’s touch, a kiss that would leave Kartik wanting, before pulling away.

“Tell me did that feel real or do I need to keep going?”

“What out in the blue in front of the guards?” asked Kartik, his eyes spoke of lamplit rooms and the ripped curtain of their bed (an item neither could find the heart to throw away). “I never took you for an exhibitionist.”

Aman was not an exhibitionist, not even remotely. When he was with Kartik he felt himself to be at his most vulnerable. He did not trust anyone to see that side of him, it was a side that only Kartik was allowed to observe for he did not feel any shame before him as he would with anyone else.

The truth was when Kartik was with him, Aman would forget that there was anyone else in the world. But he was too proud to admit that just yet. Instead, he ran his thumb over Kartik’s lips. 

“I spent a long time fashioning this crown,” he said. “It would be a shame to ruin it so soon before everyone else saw it.”

“You’re a vain proud man has anyone told you that?”

“But you love me do you not?”

“Of course I do you dense fucker.”

They both laughed then, and Aman felt that familiar urge to capture the very moment ins stone. He had memorised Kartik already. He did it every day, every night, every waking moment of their lives together. It was as if every day was still Kartik’s last on this earth.

Kartik was not the only one who felt that this paradise, the haven they had forged from their blood and tears, could slip between their fingers if they weren’t careful.

“You know,” said Aman. “We’ve lived together for six months yet I still do not know when your birthday is.”

“I know yours,” Kartik smiled. “Two days after Mid-autumn,”

“Nice try deflecting the question,” Aman laughed. “Come now, tell me. I can’t give you a present if I don’t know.”

“The day before Midwinter,” Kartik said reluctantly.

“That was a day before we wed,” the realisation came over him. “You…” He had signed his own death the day after he had most likely celebrated his birth. “I’m sorry for all of it, that it had to be this way. I have caused you too much pain.”

“You need to stop feeling guilty about the oath,” said Kartik. “It was understandable.”

“But it wasn’t right,” said Aman firmly. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Justifying my vengeance. It wasn’t right, no matter the circumstance.”

Kartik considered him for a moment before nodding. Then he smiled.

“You still haven’t apologised to Gabru,” he said. 

The dog in question snored peacefully at Kartik’s stomach Aman stifled a laugh.

“I do not think he cares. I have not mistreated him either.”

“You forget the first time we met him, you practically asked me to abandon him on the streets.”

“And look how well that worked out,”

Kartik’s smile turned into a grin. 

The rapture died suddenly, however. He clasped Aman’s hands, there was a recklessness in him at the moment. It was not the recklessness that Aman was used to, the one that gave birth to aimless, breathless yet warm whimsical antics, ones that would make for a fine anecdote to tell one’s children, but rather a recklessness that was focused, like the wrath of a demigod, a recklessness that could lay waste to the earth, strip it to bare bones.

“Aman I don’t think I can live in a world without you in it.”

Kartik's words were haphazard, earnest, desperate. His words sounded as if they should be straight out of a romantic ballad, but there was nothing romantic about his statement. It was perilous, a slope so slippery Aman could already feel himself falling through the cracks. All he could see was still hearts, dead poisoned lips, blooded fingertips and flowers stained with blood. 

It was not the way Aman wanted their story to end. 

“You’ve already done that,” he said. “I am three years younger. You’ve lived in a world without me for three years. You will do so again. At least three more years. Promise me.”

“Aman…”

“Promise me,”

Kartik took in a deep breath as if relenting to an impossible task “I promise, as long as you promise me the same”

Before Aman could do so, however, Gabru sat up abruptly, his eyes fixed on the road that lead from Kashtar to Shafaq. Suddenly he started barking. Kartik rose from Aman’s lap trying to calm the canine.

“Gabru? What is it, boy?”

Gabru answered with a resounding round of barking. Kartik looked at the direction that Gabru was barking at. His face fell instantly. His crown of flowers was now askew. 

“Holy shit.”

Aman turned around to see a figure on horseback riding across the road. 

The figure was familiar, the way they held themselves, Aman knew them almost as well as he knew himself. The man had after all been the one who had helped him onto his first horse.

Kaali.

Kaali had returned from Kashatr? By why now? Why without warning? And where were the others?

~~~

Kaali had not spoken about what had happened or why he was here. When Kartik suggested that he take rest, the other man had looked at him with such venom it burned. Then he had practically demanded that the whole court be summoned. That was when Kartik knew that things had gone awry in Kashatr. He felt a sense of dread building in the pit of his stomach at the thought. His nerves were so shaken that he felt like vomiting out the contents of all he had eaten that day. 

The whole court had come when summoned. There was not usual absent-minded chatter. Only silence. The crown of roses that Kartik had worn, was now at Aman’s lap, where the other king sat fiddling with it nervously.

When Aman had asked Kartik for it, saying he needed to make a few more tweaks, Kartik had given it up willingly knowing Aman needed it to take his mind off things for a while. Besides, they both needed to wear their turbans and kalgis, and a crown of flowers did not seem suitable a court gathering so serious.

Kartik knew however that the rose crown would not sustain Aman’s nerves for long. Sometimes it would better to take the dagger out of your chest, better the bleeding than waiting for someone to come and heal you. 

“Kaali, if there is something you wish to say,” started Kartik. “Say it now, if not I suggest you take your rest you must have had a tiring journey.”

Kaali ignored him. Aman had stopped fiddling with the crown of roses. The silence of the room only deepened. The sense of dread only settled itself further into Kartik’s stomach. 

“Where is Rajni?” Aman’s voice came out like that of a child, a scared little boy, not a king. It did not hold its usual steel or the biting frost. “Where is Parvaaz?”

Kaali bowed his head as if burdened by something unspeakable. From his robes drew out an object that glinted in the evening sun and the torchlight. Unable to make it out Kartik leaned forward, squinting when he realised what it was he felt as if the sky started to crumble, crashing down on them. It was a dagger. But not any dagger. 

It was Rajni’s. The rose-hilt dagger she had had ever since she was a child. The very one that her father had given her. It was unsheathed and stained with blood. She had never parted with it yet it was here, in Kaali’s hands, not by Rajni’s side. 

The realisation hit, but Kartik could not feel anything. It seemed too improbable, too impossible that Rajni, the fierce sharp-tongued woman who he had come love as his own sister could be dead.

Kartik first turned to where Keshav was sitting on a chair near him, he looked as if someone had taken that very dagger and stabbed him with it. Kartik’s eyes then turned to where the others were standing. Sunaina stood as stern as ever, but it was clear that she was shaken to the core. Champa beside her had her head buried in Chaman’s chest. Chaman had his arms wrapped around his wife, his eyes red and glistening, he looked as if he wanted to go forth and take the dagger from Kaali. The last of what remained of his beloved daughter.

And Kusum. Kartik could not bear to look at her for long, not when he was stuck on this damned throne, not when he could not wrap his arms around her and comfort her. She was trembling, her face pale and hollow against the bright yellow lehenga. She did not seem to be able to weep.

“What happened?” Aman asked.

“Mandhav had escaped,” answered Kaali, his voice struggling with thousands of emotions. “Rajni had gone to track him down along with Parvaaz. She had asked me to stay back fearing for my safety, the cursed old man that I am. When she did not return for three days. I went after her. They had gone in the direction of Chandan.”

Mahan’s capital. But what would Mandhav want to do there?

“I went in pursuit, thinking the worst.” he blinked a few times before screwing his eyes shut as if he were reliving a terrible memory as if he had touched upon an old wound. When he spoke he was sobbing “I found this, her dagger on the road. I kept going. I kept looking. And I…I could not find her.”

_He speaks only of Rajni._ Kartik noted. _He says nothing of Parvaaz._

“They could still be alive,” said Aman. “Surely…”

Kaali shook his head.

“I continued until Chandan. They say the city had been taken. Aman…” his voice cracked. “The people were massacred. Bodha was killed too. I saw his head decorating the wall of Chandan alongside Rajni’s, Mandhav gloats of having used Rajni’s own sword to behead them both.”

Kartik stood aback. Rajni’s death was enough of a shock, but Bodha’s rubbed salt on the wound. Kartik remembered him well though they had only met briefly. The steward who they had named the new Lord of Chandan, the man who had trained Aman in armed combat ever since he was a child. The man who had shown Kartik around Chandan, the man who had made him feel more comfortable in a foreign land. 

It could not be. He was old yes but still so full of strength that even Aman could not best him in a fight. Kartik remembered his white beard, his raucous lion-like smile, his booming laughter and his stern expression. He could not be dead, he simply could not. 

“How did it happen?” asked Kartik. “Chandan’s walls cannot be breached.”

Kaali’s eyes met his finally noticing his presence. “As if you don’t already know it happened?” he hissed.

It took Kartik only a few seconds to understand what it meant. When he realised, his grip on his throne tightened until his knuckles were as white as snow in midwinter. He seethed, he smouldered.

“You dare-” started Kartik.  
  


Aman raised a hand to stop him.

“I trust you, remember that” he whispered to Kartik before turning to Kaali. 

“You will not accuse _my_ husband, _your_ king, without evidence.” Aman continued. “I respect you, Kaali. You were like a father to me after my own died. But even that respect will not override baseless accusations.”

“Very well then, let me continue. Parvaaz did not return when he left with Rajni, neither could I find him,” Kaali said. “At first I thought he was dead. When I saw his head was not decorating the walls next o Bodha and Rajni, I thought he was taken, prisoner. But reports from Chandan tell us that the tunnels were used when the city was taken. And you know as well as I Rajni would rather die before she gave any information to Mandhav.”

At those words Aman’s eyes flickered to Kartik, full of the suspicion. The secret tunnels under Chandan, the tunnels that only select members of the royal family knew. The tunnels, whose presence Aman had trusted Kartik with the night they had gone to the Inn of the Laughing Moon. 

“Parvaaz did not know about the tunnels,” said Kartik firmly, he had kept his promise to Aman. 

“No,” said Kaali. “But _you_ did.”

Silence fell over the room. The air was filled with loathing, there whispers through the room, words _deception, disgrace_ the most apparent, the most prominent. The slander was like an ink stain, you could get rid of it all you could, but you will always know it had once been there.

“I would not betray these nations,” said Kartik trying to reign in his anger, trample the fire within him before it got out of control. “I would never hurt my people.”

“Yes _your people,_ ” Kaali sneered. “It seems _your_ interests never lay in a combined nation, not truly.”

“You have no proof,” said Aman, his voice cutting through the air and the rising argument. “For all I know, _you_ could have told Mandhav about the tunnels. With all the proof you have given me I could just as easily blame you Kaali.”

“There was a time,” reminded Kaali. “Where you would take my word as it is. But I see your _love_ for this traitor has addled reason itself.”

“ _King_ ,” Aman reminded him. “He is no traitor yet.”

Kaali produced a letter from his pocket 

“You know your husband’s hand better than I,” said Kaali. He walked up the stairs toward Aman sitting on his throne and placed the parchment on his lap before going back down the stairs. “This is another reason why I know Parvaaz is not dead or a prisoner. This letter was found in his tent. If that signature is not your husband’s then I will take back all that I have said.”

For a moment Aman did not touch the letter. As if he were afraid that opening it or even touching it would change everything.

“Go on,” said Kartik. “Read it. Read it out loud. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone.”

He had bared his body, his heart, his soul to Aman, and his husband had done the same in turn. There was nothing to fear, nothing to hide. 

At Kartik’s reassurance, Aman took up the parchment. His eyes did not scan through, to see what was written, instead, they fixed themselves on the bottom of the page. Aman laid out the paper flat on his lap, and Kartik saw, his own signature, in his own messy flourishing hand right at the bottom. 

It could belong to no other.

Kartik remembered then the day Kaali came to him to ask him to sign the drafts for Rakesh’s trial. He had been a fool to not see that Kaali’s nervousness then had not been because he had been scared about making amends. In fact, their conversation was merely a distraction. He should have known it was because Kaali had not actually wanted to read through the so-called draft properly.

Gods be good there will still that space Kartik had left near the bottom so that Aman too could sign. 

There was indeed a traitor in their midst, there was no doubt about. But it was _not_ Kartik. 

He had to admit however it was clever of Kaali to chose draft proceedings as a pretence, there would be numerous drafts for one trial alone. A lost draft, or multiple, would have been of no matter of suspicion. The problem remained however to explain it all to Aman.

Aman who now stood still, the rage simmering to his very bones. He read out the letter.

_Parvaaz,_ _  
_ _  
_ _My most trusted advisor. You know what must be done. I have achieved our part of the plan. I have managed to spare Mandhav’s life and have sent him to Kashatr. I have also won Aman’s trust and his heart, he will not suspect anything._

_You must ensure that Rajni and Bodha are killed before you take the city of Chandan alongside Mandhav. You must ensure you are not seen. I have attached the plans of the tunnels use them well._

_For Akhtar’s glory_

_Kartik Singh_

“I assume,” said Kaali. “The map of tunnels is now with Parvaaz in Chandan.”

When Aman turned to him his eyes were welling with tears. “Explain this to me Kartik.”

“I did not write it,” he said simply. 

“But the signature is undeniably yours,” said Aman. 

“Yes the signature is mine but I assure you I have never seen this message in my life..”

“You signed it, yet you never saw the letter. Do you take me for a fool?” Aman said it in a tone of bitter amusement. “I suppose you got a scribe to write the rest. Makes the whole thing a little redundant does it not? If you were going to sign it yourself in the end anyway.” 

“Aman let me explain-”

“And what let you dupe me as you did for those six months?” Aman scoffed. “I will not be fooled again. You…”

“Aman listen to me,” he started. “I did not write this.”

“Then who did?”

“The man who you consider a father.”

Aman looked at Kaali and back at Kartik. He stood from his seat and walked over, his steps slow and deliberate, a show of power no throne could give him, he stood before Kartik trapping him on his own throne, the crown of roses still in his hand. His beautiful dark eyes poised like a blade.

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” he asked, it sounded more like a threat. “You dare blame Kaali who has been there for me since childhood. You’re better off blaming my dead father. The one you killed. That would be more believable.” 

Kartik stood. He hadn’t fought Aman last time. He was not sure if he had enough fight in him to stand his ground now. But he could try.

“Will you not listen to reason?” he countered.

“I have listened,” Aman whispered resolutely. “All reason points _against_ you but my heart says…”

Aman paused. He stopped the sentence before it could be heard in full. But Kartik knew. He always did. _Will you listen to that heart of yours for once? It always seems to point in the right direction, yet you ignore it time and time again._

“I made you my temple,” Aman’s voice was as harsh as ice, but just as brittle, it was bound to break soon. “I made you my mural, my heaven on earth. I trusted you above others, above my own family.”

“I know,” said Kartik. 

_I know. I remember when you laid my hands at your hips and whispered those words: ‘I trust you’. I know it scared me then, and this was why. I never wanted to hurt you._

“There are two paths before you,” said Aman. “You can go with grace, live in exile for the rest of your life or you can hand yourself over to the guards. Consider this mercy. I could have had you killed.”

Grace. Mercy. As if there was anything beautiful about falsely being named a traitor. As if there was something peaceful in running away. As if there was glory in submitting yourself to death without a fight.

“Don’t do this,” Kartik said simply.

“You tell me then,” hissed Aman. “What should I do?”

Kartik placed his hands at Aman’s cheeks as he had done many times before he let out an ironic smile, as the tears welled in his eyes. There was no use, Aman was right there was not much he _could_ do.

“Just...don’t get sentimental.” Kartik croaked out. 

Aman’s chest heaved for a moment he seemed not like the cruel, cold-hearted king, the exterior he put on, but rather who he truly was. A confused young man, who had been hurt, hurt far beyond what anyone should be allowed to bear. 

Kartik to dropped his hands from his lover’s face, they hung limply by his side. He walked past Aman not knowing whether he should walk out of the palace or hand himself over to the guards.

“Are you leaving?” Aman asked. 

Kartik turned. Aman had not moved, his back was turned to the whole court. He did not even look at Kartik as he spoke his eyes firmly ahead. Perhaps a part of Kartik _had_ intended to leave. Spend his days in exile, for Parvaaz was surely dead and he had nothing here anymore. But hearing Aman’s voice made him waver in his decision. 

Kaali spoke before Kartik could.

“His advisor’s, Devika, Nasireh should also be apprehended or made to go,” he spoke as if _he_ were the king. And Kartik saw it oh-so-clearly now the way Kaali had been manipulating him through all these years. Why was Aman blind to Kaali’s machinations? “And perhaps the old healer too was in on it. We should take measures...”

Kartik did not hear the rest. It made Kartik angry. And anger was a dangerous thing. It loosed the threads of grace, snapped them. The mention of his friends and their fates reopened that urge, the urge that he had thought died when Aman had renounced his vengeance. It was the urge to throw himself in the line of fire. Kartik no longer had it in him to leave. 

He decision was clear cut.

“I will not leave Aman Tripathi,” somehow he did not think adding the Singh would do any good. “Beat me, torture me, starve me, but you will not lay a hand on them. They had nothing to do with it. Take me instead.”

He proffered his wrists forward, he was practically admitting to guilt. But he did not care as long as his friends were safe.

“I hand myself over to the law.” he continued. “I demand a fair trial.”

Aman stood resolutely, still not facing them, not moving. He stood as if he were carved from marble. Suddenly he gave a single nod.

The guards came forth, the chains at the ready, to bind Kartik’s wrists together. When they ventured first however to remove his turban and kalgi, Aman’s voice rang through.

“Do not dare to touch his turban and kalgi. He shall not be taken to a common prison but will be kept in one of the smaller chambers, near the servant quarters. Though he may be a traitor he is still my ki-”

He stopped himself and Kartik heard the words from the night they had first made love.

_My lover, my friend, my king._

“He is still king in his own right.” continued Aman, as if _those_ words had never been spoken as if he were not able to speak them again. “No one else on earth can take that from him, not even me. He shall not be treated with any disrespect. He will be given a fair trial as is requested and as the laws commands. And his advisors will not be harmed.”

It was Nasireh who moved, Nasireh who stood, Nasireh, the only one who enough spirit left in them to fight. They walked forward, putting themselves between Kartik and the guards.

“Nasireh sit back down,” Kartik hissed in their ear.

“Go fuck yourself, I may be loyal to you but I’m no Gabru. You can’t order me to sit. I will do what is right,” Nasireh hissed back, they then turned to Aman. “You can’t do this Aman. You and I both know Kartik would never do this. You can’t believe anything that lying snake Kaali has said.”

“I don’t know who to believe,” said Aman derisively. 

“Believe the damned truth!” Nasireh’s features, usually calm, were lined with an anger Kartik had never known them to possess. “I’ve known him all my life, he is like a brother to me. I will vouch for him if I have to. And if _you_ truly loved him, you would know none of this is true.”

The muscles on Aman’s back stiffened, tightened, tensed. He said naught.

“But I guess you’re just as cruel as they said you were.” continued Nasireh. “Either that or you’re pretty fucking stupid.”

“That is no way to address a king.” started Kaali.

Nasireh grin, but it was feral, dangerous grin, more akin to the face of wolf than of the kind charming person Kartik grew up with.

“Don’t you see Kaali he doesn’t give two shits!” Nasireh was shouting now. “He doesn’t even bother looking his husband eye as he sends him off to a gilded prison. He doesn’t care, he never fucking did.”

Their words seemed to have struck a chord with Aman. Kartik watched as the other king took in a deep breath. Slowly Aman turned. He faced them all. 

Before them was no king but a man in shambles, barely clinging to life, completely unmoored.

He was a wretched mess. He was a man who no longer had control. His eyes were red, the tears flowing from them, making them glitter in the torchlight. He was trembling all over, the crown of white roses clutched tightly in his hands. So tightly that the thorns had pierced his palms, staining the white petals in a dark shade of red. He did not bother to check his wounds or wipe away his tears. He did not care for them.

Kartik had seen it before, the bloodied rose in the hands of a man he loved. He never liked how that tale ended.

It was almost as if someone had stripped Aman to very bones. He was hollow and bared it for the whole world to see. Kartik, like the rest of them, had assumed Aman had turned his back out of sheer stubbornness and pride. As always, however, he should have known better. 

The Mahanite king screwed his eyes shut let out a shudder, the Mahanite king let outa sob. 

No not the Mahanite king.

It was _Aman_.

_Aman_ let out a sob.

Aman who never wept in public. Aman who was as stern as steel and just as unbreakable. Aman who’s eyes could silence a whole room.

Aman who was now broken. 

That was what made it hurt all the more, to see Aman feel as if he had lost every ounce of control. 

Something in Nasireh’s face changed. They were no longer angry, not in a brutal way. Their anger had petered out into something for more deadly. They acted slowly, their movements purposeful walking up to Aman so that the two of them stood face to face.

Nasireh’s hand went to the dragonfly earring that stood proudly at their chest, the very one Aman had given them when he had named Nasireh his champion. 

Nasireh tore it from their chest. They threw it to the ground at their feet and then met Aman’s weeping eyes.

“I will no longer champion a king who cannot see what is before his eyes.” 

They turned their back to Aman, hazel eyes focused, notched and aimed like an arrow. When they reached Kartik they went down on one knee, placing a hand on their chest.

“My King,” their voice was loud, clear, the only thing that could be heard in the silence of the room. 

“My Captain,” Kartik acknowledged. _Friend, sibling._ He also wanted to say, but now was not a time for emotional goodbyes.

No-one stopped Nasireh when they rose. No-one stopped them when stormed out of the throne room and no one _will_ stop them when they would eventually leave Shafaq. The gods knew where Nasireh was going, Kartik for one prayed wherever it was they would be safe.

As they departed Aman raised his head to the ceiling as if he were pleading to the gods for guidance as if he had lost everything. He looked as if he wanted to run out of this room, up the stairs and lock himself into his room. He would do it all eventually, Kartik knew, but as of now, he stood where he was.

“Aman…” Kartik started walking towards him.

Kaali, however, stood in his way. 

“That’s enough,” he ordered. “You have caused enough trouble already.” he turned. “Guards, take him away.”

“Let me just talk to Aman,” Kartik urged. 

“No, definitely not.”

“Just let me talk to him at least once.”

“I will not allow it.”

The guards had surrounded him binding his wrists together.

“Can I say a final goodbye please?” seeing that civility would not work he decided on a more aggressive stance he pushed the guards and stepped forward towards Kaali, so close he could hear his soft breathing. “Move aside.”

“You will have to fight me,” said Kaali.

“I don’t want to fight you!” Kartik roared the more quietly he said “You may not know this, but all of us fight battles every day of our lives. But the battles, the ones we fight against our _families_ ” he emphasised the words hoping that Kaali would understand that he knew what he had done. “Those fights are are the biggest and the most dangerous. Just look at what happened to Aayush and Taharin.”

“I don’t care for them,” Kaali seethed. “No one in this bloody kingdom cares for them. Neither does anyone care for your pretty words. You have done enough damage. It looks like I will have to escort you to your chambers myself.”

He ventured to move Kartik away but still, the Akhtari king stood his ground he addressed Aman. 

“I leave both nations in your hands,” he said. “I know you will look after them. I trust you still even if you can no longer accord me the same respect. I wish you well.”

Aman looked as if he wanted to respond but before he could Kaali ordered the guards to move and take Kartik. The followed his orders promptly turning Kartik away leading him out. Gabru who had sat silently by observing all this now started barking. He was quietened, presumably by Aman, and this more than anything calmed Kartik.

He was lead by Kaali down the corridors of the palace. All the while he tried to replay his steps, wondering where he went wrong, wondering what he had done to ensure that Aman did not trust him in this.

_What is my word, the word of a man who killed his father, compared to the man who practically raised him?_

_Nothing it is nothing._

The fight had not left Kartik yet. Surely, surely there was a way out of this. Surely the gods could not be that cruel.

All the while Kartik did notice his surroundings, he did not take them in, being so lost in his own thoughts. He let himself be led. Trusting once again the people who were his enemies. 

He only realised his mistake when they led him to a dank cell, in the lower portions of the palace, far away from the servants quarters where he was supposed to be kept. Kaali was going against Aman’s orders. At this point, Kartik should not have been surprised, but he was, even now a part of him wanted to trust Kaali.

“Aman said that I was not be taken to the prisons…”

“Aman is a fool,” said Kaali. 

Kartik looked into the cell. It was a terrible place, the blood of all the prisoners before him, still lingering in the air. In the middle of the stony grim room was a raised platform with two wooden posts.

“Tie him up,” said Kaali. 

Kartik no longer had it in him to go gracefully. He fought them. He fought them every step of the way. He lashed out, he bit them, kicked them, he even managed to knock one’s teeth out. He fought with the desperate fury that used to fight against his father’s beatings. And much like those fights, he lost here too.

In the end, Kartik’s hands were shackled high at both posts on either side of him. He twisted against his bonds though he knew the battle was lost. 

All Kaali did was stand by and smirk. “Not so powerful now are we?” 

He laughed as if he had made the most amusing joke before coming forward until he was barely inches away from Kartik. He raised his hand.

Kartik sucked in a breath flinching, bracing for a blow to strike him, but it never came. Instead Kaali lightly touched the ruby and pearly kalgi and the red silk turban. A blow to the head Kartik could have taken. But this...this felt worse. A violation of the worst kind.

“I suppose you won’t be needing this anymore,” Kaali announced.

In a sudden burst of violence, Kaali ripped the kalgi from the turban, the pearls and rubies clattering on the stone floor. But Kaali did not stop there, he took up the turban and tore it from Kartik’s head. Kaali might as well have torn him from limb to limb.

“I think I will let the guards piss on it,” said Kaali. “Or perhaps wipe their arses with it. It will do no good letting it rot on the head of an Akhtari traitor.”

Kaali seemed to know exactly how to make Kartik feel worthless, exactly how to violate the most sacred parts of his psyche.

After his relapse, after his overdose, he had vowed to be a good king. It had been what kept him alive, what disciplined him, what made him do better, a vow to do right by his people. That vow had weaved itself into every inch of his body. It was in bones, his blood, his soul. Through this simple act, Kaali had ripped it all away from him. Leaving but a husk of a man.

What was a monarch without their kalgi?

What was a lover without a beloved?

What was a man without a dream?

“You’re nothing here,” said Kaali. “You are no one.”

The broken kalgi and the torn turban lay on the ground on the ground as a testament of that.

“You cannot do this!” Kartik said, as loud as he could, hoping someone would hear. 

"You fool, I have already done it. Scream all you want no one can hear you here.” he grinned. “I suggest you make yourself comfortable. This will be your new home for a long while yet."

Kartik lunged, but it was too little too late. The chains held him fast as Kaali stepped back laughing. And as he left the cell Kartik could have sworn the other man made a conscious effort trample his unravelled turban and crush the jewels that had once adorned his kalgi.

____________________

Songs:

[Kalank Title Track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4hrUSBP4nc) (Arjit Singh) - for the beginning

[Gold Rush](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pz-f9mM3Ms8) (Taylor Swift)- Aman’s jealousy

[One of Us](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_AHPVfpakA) (The Lion King 2) - the betrayal 

[My Tears Ricochet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWbDJFtHl3w) (Taylor Swift) - Kartik POV

[Exile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osdoLjUNFnA) (Taylor Swift) - both Kartik and Aman

[Hollow Crown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h1j7Hrtv1Bk) (Ellie Goulding) - for the rose crown thing also general vibes

[A Lannister Always Pays his Debt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jERdloSRJEw) (Game of Thrones) - the vibe of the second half

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't kill me thanks.


	51. Of Glories and Disgraces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who needs to hear it:
> 
> Even when your companions abandon the road, leaving you hopeless, blinding you with your own tears, do not lose sight of the goal you had set out for.
> 
> Just in case you need this but not too keen on reading the whole chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi so many of you may have noticed I have disabled both of my accounts on insta. My apologies I will be gone for some of January too. I'll be available for a day or two before I disable again.
> 
> Anyway happy new year!
> 
> I can't believe I'm starting the new year by giving you lot pain.
> 
> Anyway you have all been wonderful I could not have been anymore blessed.

Through the blood and bruise, you see

What dies does not truly stay dead

Not when there is but one fool

Who will remember all you have said

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Kusum could do nothing but watch as the world she knew descended into madness and chaos. She was unable to move from where she stood. Unable to take action as she should. Most people would call it a natural expression of the beginnings of grief. And to and extent it was.

She felt as if she did not have the energy to stand, let alone the energy to stand up to Aman, fight him tooth and nail like Nasireh had done. But she also knew the grief could not absolve her of her guilt. It lay heavy in her chest comprised of every little thing she regretted in her life. While she knew herself to be somewhat complicit in Rajni’s death and Kartik’s imprisonment, she was not entirely sure she could brand herself as such in front of so many people.

So she remained, watching waiting.

Devika, who had been a silent observer thus far, was the next to leave the throne room after Kartik had been taken. She did not protest when a retinue of armed guards left their posts to escort her to her rooms and most likely keep her there, monitoring her. 

Before she left however she turned to Aman and said simply.

“I understand why you did what you did,” she said. “Truly, Nasireh may scorn you but I would have done the same with the evidence that is before me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry. I pray that you will see the truth soon enough as you’ve done before.”

She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it once. Then she was gone, leaving Kusum wishing that she had her courage.

It was her fault. Her fault Rajni, the beautiful warrior she had come to love with every inch of her soul, was dead. It was her fault that Kartik had been branded a traitor. She had the power to stop Rakesh, long before all this happened, but she had not used it. She had power now too. She could tell Aman everything, she could testify her role in all this and Kartik could be freed. She had already lost her lover. She could not lose Kartik who had been like a brother to her. It was the least she could do. She knew it would be what Rajni would have wanted.

The emotions rose in her. A slow fire that curled and revolted, it raged until she could not hold it in any longer. The moment had come, she took a step forward. But it was here that Aman turned to them all, his eyes aflame. Kusum froze midstep. 

“Leave,” he whispered.

It was one word, but it seemed to hold all the power in the universe as Aman stood with his hands bleeding pierced by rose thorns, his eyes still weeping. No one argued with him. No one tried to approach him, not even Sunaina. It was almost as if he brought forth something monstrous, a force so terrorising it could freeze even the fiery depths of hell. 

And just like that all the courage, the sense of self-sacrifice that had been burgeoning in Kusum, wilted. 

The court was adjourned. Many a nobleman passed Kusum by. She did not hear the words of condolences. They brushed over her, she refused to hear them. She refused to think Rajni was dead. Refused to accept this fact in her heart. She could not bear it, not when she had been too much of a coward to atone for it.

Slowly she too made her way out of the throne room. Her mind no longer in control, her body seemingly moving on its own accord. She knew people would comment on how she bore the news of her lover’s death with courage, how she did not falter, how she did not let the grief control her. 

They were wrong. The grief _did_ control her. It stifled her every movement, forced her into submission, numbed her. It would not let her scream her fury, or fight as she wanted to. It was breaking her apart piece by piece. She did not want to go to her rooms. She would be alone. Truly alone. There would be no Rajni here to help when the emotions finally broke through.

But she went anyway, locking the door behind her, standing as still as Aman had stood in the throne room only a few minutes ago. 

It did not come all at once, the wave of emotions, it seeped through her as the moments passed as she took in her room. It through little things, small realisation, small aches, small pangs and pains. It came whenever she looked at the chair that had been Rajni’s favourite. 

If she closed her eyes she could still see her lover draped over it carelessly, toying with her rose hilt dagger in one hand, smiling with her hair cascading over her shoulders. 

She could see her still leaning out the window, the wind in her hair when she would turn around to try and affix her stray locks, Kusum would stop her hands. “You look beautiful, perfect just as you are.”

She could still feel the weigh of her arms around her, the feeling of her skin, her breath, her lips...

Kusum walked across the room towards the bed, as she did she thought of all the moments she had spent with Rajni. This kiss by the sunflower fields, their mock battles and the nights they had spent in each other’s arms, making love, laughing, talking. Never again. She would never touch her hair again, she would never hold her again, never hear her laugh. These smaller realisations laid the foundations of a grief she would not be able to overcome.

Brick by brick, layer by layer it built up in her, clawed up her throat. Until she could not longer handle it. If this was what love did to you, Kusum did not want it. She sank to the bed, trying to suppress her tears. For all the was lost, a future tarnished. 

Why did the gods see fit to take every scrap of her lover away from her? 

_Because you failed_ a voice whispered _because you had not the courage to admit your sins._

“Kusum?”

She looked up through her tears and saw Keshav standing at her door awkwardly.

“Keshav?”

“I wanted to see if you were well?” he said simply. “If you do not wish to be disturbed-”

“No it’s okay, please come in”

She rose and wiped away her tears. She was not the only person who had lost Rajni. 

She may have lost a lover but Keshav had lost a sister. Chaman and Champa a daughter. Sunaina a niece. Aman a cousin. It was strange how the loss of one person, did not stop at the loss of a soul from a body but continued encroaching the hearts of those who had once surrounded them. 

With one death, came a thousand little ones. 

She should have been used to grief by now. Having lost her own family. But that did not stop her heart from breaking again and again.

“Come sit with me.” she gestured to a spot at her bed when he finally came in.

He sat down beside her. Neither of them knew what to say for a few minutes. It was Kusum who spoke first.

“When Jaimini…” she stopped herself. “No, it’s not my place to ask. I’m so-“

“It hurt like hell,” he said, registering the unsaid question. “I wished I had never loved her. There are some moments when I feel the pain as acutely as if she died yesterday.” He paused. “I don’t know if this helps but after while you learn to cherish them, the ones you lost in a way you never could in life. And I suppose it hurts to know you can never tell them that, but in a way they stay alive, in our hearts, in the words and teachings, they have imparted and through their memories. I suppose there is some solace in that.”

Kusum’s heart flared at his words. For years she had pushed aside the pain of her family’s death, honing it to vengeance, even now she was trying to suppress the pain. She had accepted them as dead, when they were not. Not for as long as she remembered them, honoured their memory. They would not die.

So she let the pain, the memories course through her.

She let herself weep. With every tear, every sob she felt the shackles that had once bound her fast, shatter. When she felt Keshav’s arms around her she did not hesitate to embrace him back.

“I wish I could have seen her one last time,” she said. “At least hold her hand one last time.”

He stroked her hair, holding her closer. 

“I wish I could thank her,” he admitted, “For so much. For trying to teach me how to fight. For feeding me when I was a child, sneaking me sweets when.” he paused. “My first word was her name. I wish I could have heard her final words, it feels like a sin that I did not.”

Rajni had not deserved to die the way she did. Mutilated, brutalised. An anger rose in Kusum then, a rage that could bring the mountains low.

“If I ever find Mandhav,” she said, thinking if Rakesh, the man she had once loved, the man who had killed the woman she loved. “I will kill him.”

Keshav did not answer, not immediately. Perhaps he understood her anger, perhaps he was wiser than her on this accord. 

“I want you to know,” he said after a while. “That you will always have a brother in me. No matter where our paths lead in the future.”

“And parents in us.”

It was here that Kusum noticed Chaman and Champa at her door. She was not sure how to respond. A part of her, deep down, felt as if she did not deserve it, their love. Did not deserve to let them help the heavy mantle of grief that had been bestowed upon her.

Chaman came up to Kusum and placed a hand on her head, a Mahanite gesture, symbolising a blessing from a parent to a child. 

“I wasn’t able to protect her as I was supposed to,” he said. “But you are my daughter as much as she was. I vow to protect you for as long as I can.”

~~~

When he was sure that all the courtiers had left Aman shed the final shred of kingship that remained. He shed it then and there in the throne room and ran. He ran out of the throne room, up the stairs to chambers of his room and shut the door. 

He was glad, glad that none of the guards had followed him here yet. The first thing he did was breathe. Or at least he tried to. He pressed his back against the wall and tried to suppress everything. He did not want to think about it, he should not have to. He needed to distract himself from the pain of Rajni’s death and the agony that was Kartik’s betrayal.

The crown of roses was already well embedded in his palm, indeed he could feel the droplets of blood running down his closed fist. He could feel the pain now, seemingly redoubled, to make up for the fact that he had not felt it in the throne room itself. He had been too preoccupied with the ache in his heart. He closed his fists tighter around the crown of roses, or rather the crown of thorns, crushing it. 

It was distracting, beautifully distracting. He found himself almost revelling in it, almost wanting more, almost...

No. No. He could not do that. No matter how badly he had been hurt, he should _not_ take it out on himself, he should not cause harm to himself. He had promised Jaimini at her death bed. He would honour that promise. 

And Rajni, Rajni would not be proud of him if she knew.

He threw the crown of thorns to the floor.

But the urge to destroy did not leave him. It built up, it burgeoned, it roiled. Slowly he felt the little semblance of control, grace and pride he had left slough away. Until the only thing that remained in his body was violent uncontrollable rage.The memory of what had just happened as fresh as a new war wound. 

_I trust you._

He had once said those words to Kartik, believing for the first time in his life he would have no cause to ever regret his words believing in his husband and his kindness. Believing that he had found a safe haven. He had been a fucking fool. 

_Rajni is dead. Beheaded. Her head in Chandan’s walls._

He tore his turban and kalgi from his head, the white cloth staining itself with his blood, the jewels of his kalgi clattering to the floor. They were both tossed to the floor.

_He will not suspect anything._

The letter had read, the letter that was still crumpled in his hand, the one the remained unbloodied, he dared not look at it. The testament of the greatest betrayal in his life. 

Rajni was dead. Just like Shankar.

He tore it up, the letter. Not caring for the edges cutting into the thorn wounds. He let the torn pieces of parchment fall to the floor.

_Just...don’t get sentimental._

Kartik had said it before he was taken. How could Aman not get sentimental when he had shown Kartik the most wounded, mortal and vulnerable parts of him and he had gone and stabbed him there anyway? He found himself at the vanity where Kartik’s various assortments of jewellery, his kajal still lay alongside Aman’s own jewellery.

In one swift movement of his arm, they too were flung to the floor.

_He doesn’t care, he never fucking did._

Nasireh’s words haunted him. Because he _did_ care. He cared about them all, the family he thought he had created. And he had loved Kartik. Loved him beyond anything he had loved before. He had bared everything to Kartik, shown him the scars he had shown no one else, told him of his deepest desires, his highest dreams.

Aman knocked over the chair with such force that the wood splintered.

_My Lover. My friend. My king._

He had given himself wholly to him. He still remembered Kartik’s laugh as they would sit together late at night joking about anything and everything. He could still feel the touch of his hand entwined in his own. The weight of his body, his lips. The smell of franckinscene and sandalwood. His breath against neck. Aman could still remember way he would bite his lips as he wrote, brows furrowed or the way he would lay in bed in the light of the morning, his hair mussed against the pillow grinning up at Aman, pleading for another kiss.

_You fell in love with you father’s murderer, you cousin’s slayer. You let him fuck you and you enjoyed it. Whore._

He squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered with shame the way he had given himself to Kartik so willingly. His body smouldered with the indignation. It felt unclean, even though a part of him knew he was not at fault. 

He opened his eyes and saw his face in the mirror of the vanity. He hated what he saw. 

He closed his fist, raised it and struck the mirror. Repeatedly in a strange rhythmic motion, splintering the glass into shards.

_A glass mosaic._

He scoffed at the memory of his and Kartik’s little side project, the one they had planned on embarking on in a few weeks.

He wanted those memories to burn. He wanted to destroy them. He could feel the craving for vengeance and destruction course through his veins. He did not want to be the healer he wanted to be a warmonger with his enemy being the memories of a now tainted love.

Through the shards fo his mirror his eyes fell to the ripped curtain of their bed. He hated them too. Walking over to them Aman grasped the plum velvet cloth, wrenching the curtains from their hangings, hurling them to to the floor, wanting to let out a scream. 

_I leave both nations in your hands…_ Kartik had said _I know you will look after them. I trust you still even now._

Somehow, Kartik had entwined himself within the very fabric of Aman’s life so much So much so that if he destroyed every memory of Kartik, it would also destroy him. He had fallen in love with their nation, their dream. He had thought that for once in his life he could work towards a goal that would not lay waste to all those around him. 

He had thought that by bringing these two nations together, by joining themselves together he could change history.

He was a fool.

And Rajni was dead because of it.

He went to the box of poems. The one with Kartik’s epic of Aayush and Taharin. The epic was a rewriting of history. A symbol of new found peace.

It was a lie.

Just like every little thing Kartik had done.

He opened the box, took out the papers with Kartik’s familiar handwriting. He went to the slow-burning embers of the fire in his room. He wanted to destroy this history, this hope for a dream. He wanted to destroy the fool that had been Aman Tripathi who had believed in the combined Nations of Mahan and Akhtar.

But could not do it.

The poem lay secure in his bloodied hands.

Aman was not a killer, his nature had always been to heal, but the world had pushed him towards the path of swords, blood and crushed bones. He had never wanted this that’s why it had fucked him up. Kartik’s presence had made him realise that.

He looked around the room, at the destruction he had caused in his fury.

“Damn you Kartik” he whispered. “Damn you.”

He let himself fall to his knees. He let himself weep. He let the epic fall before him, familiar lines that had once brought him comfort now stood mocking him. A part of him wanted to go back, to the time when he was blissfully ignorant, to a time when he was in love and unashamed. 

He brought he knees to his chest, the fury leaving him, the ache in his chest returning. He hoped somehow, wherever Kartik was, a part of him was hurting too, that a part of Kartik had loved him. He hoped that part of Kartik was wounded beyond repair. It would only be fair, he had shattered Aman beyond repair.

It was then that his door creaked.

“Leave me alone!” he did not dare hide the emotions in his voice, he let the intruder hear his anguish, let everyone see how wretched he was.

There was silence before the footsteps got closer to him. He felt the familiar touch of his mother’s hand in his hair. 

“Look at your hands,” Sunaina said, sitting on the floor beside him taking them in hers.

“They’re fine.” he insisted.

“I’m sure that’s why they’re bleeding,” she said. 

He was not sure how to answer her so he let her tend to him. He let her guide him to the bed, let her sit him down and wipe away the never-ending flow of tears. He let her clean his wounds let her tie linen strips over the wounds. She did this all in silence.

“Do you want to talk?” she asked when she was finished.. 

Aman shook his head. He did not want to think let alone speak. But the way Sunaina looked at him full of so much concern let him, allowed him to release his emotions in another way. She was after all his mother, the very same woman he would often come to whenever he was a child to relay his insecurities if she could not understand his pain no one else could.

He leaned into her arms and wept. 

And she held him, laid him gently on her lap, stroked his hair with such tenderness that Aman could almost believe himself to be in a memory of his childhood.

But it was not his childhood, he could not forget, the hurt the pain that had been wrought by Kartik. He could not forget that Rajni, one of the most important people of his childhood was dead because of the man he had once loved.

“I miss her,” he whispered. “She was there all my life, she protected me, gave me my first sword, showed me how to use it, she fed me, she can’t be gone.”

Sunaina looked down at him “I do too. I used to be annoyed when I had to look after you both when you were children. But now I would do anything to go back to those times.”

He could do naught but screw his eyes shut and lose himself to his tears and his mother’s finger’s running through his hair. 

“Maa…” he choked out. “I love him... _loved_. I loved him.”

“No,” she whispered wiping away a tear. “ _Love_.”

She was right, he still loved him. He wished it wasn’t true, but it was. Even now a part of him wished that somehow all of this was wrong, that there was another explanation for this. That despite the evidence Kartik was innocent. He was so desperate in this would have taken even a small sliver of doubt and exonerated Kartik of all charges.

“I wish…” he said. “I wish I never married him. I wish I never met him. I wish I had killed him. I was a fool.”

“No,” she held him closer. “No Aman you are not a fool.”

“I let a traitor into our home, into our hearts.”

“I love him too,” she continued. “Still, I see him as my Bubla. My heart still hopes that somehow there is a misunderstanding here. But even if it is hopeless, there was happiness in our family because of him, traitor or no.”

“Rajni is dead,” he said. His voice hollow. 

Sunaina sighed. 

“You sound just as you did when your father died. Except you had not wept then.” she stroked his cheek. “I know that I have not guided you before as I should and I regret that every day of my life. Will you listen to me now? ”

It was the first time he heard his mother admit it so openly, it made him give a start.

“Do not regret it. What you and Kartik achieved together, though perhaps a part of a lie, was something unseen until today. You still did what no king ever did, forge peace despite having every reason for war. I am proud that you had put your vengeance aside and chose to forge this alliance, chose to make love instead of war. You showed the world that peace could be achieved even when there is every reason to do otherwise, you put our ancestors to shame, by doing the right thing for once,” she leaned forward and kissed his temple. “Even when your companions abandon the road, leaving you hopeless, blinding you with your own tears, do not lose sight of the goal you had set out for.”

* * *

Songs:

[The Fault In Our Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OefwRG8Q5Qw) (Troye Sivan) - Kusum's POV for the grief of Rajni's death

[Only the Good Die Young](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLKyaOLb2Fs) (Queen) - Also for the grief of Rajni's death

[Death by a Thousand Cuts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTEFSuFfgnU) (Taylor Swift) - Kusum and Aman's POV

[Misty Mountains](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wC-JOW2YafM) \- I had this on loop for this chapter

[The Archer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KpKc3C9V3w) (Taylor Swift) - Aman POV

[Ex-Wives](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgEJK6Vk8Ro) (Six Musical) - inspired title

  
  



	52. The Dreamers and the Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi so if you follow me on my insta you will know I am taking a break from writing. I have some family problems regarding COVID and mental health has taken a toll. I would really appreciate it if no more questions are asked about this, it is a very stressful time thank you.
> 
> I'm aiming to have regular updates from after 29th January. But we shall see.
> 
> Anyway I will also be disabling both my accounts (im sorry truly I've been fluctuating between this alot but I think its best that I'm taking a clean break).
> 
> I will still be writing with Dhyan since that is very healing and I also have one thing for a friend that I will updating in a few days. But other than that I will see you guys after the 29th (hopefully)

We all dreamt that dream once

It came to us in the dead of the night

Glimmers of hope, whispers of smoke

Rising until they the set the heavens alight

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Parvaaz stood at the battlements of Chandan’s walls, alongside the city’s conqueror, its new lord and its destroyer - Rakesh - the man he had once thought was Mandhav. He turned out to be naught but a crook and a pawn. Rakesh surveyed the city and smiled, this gesture curdled any pleasantness that may have remained in Parvaaz.

The Former Head Librarian of Khorshid was a prisoner here, though no chains bound him to the spot. No threat of a sword hung over him, but it hung over everyone else in this city, and for this reason alone was Parvaaz bound unto captivity. 

The least he could do was not participate, not lay witness to Rakesh’s supposed glory. Parvaaz rebelled with his eyes; he could not not even look in that direction, where the slaughter had taken place, where it would take place again if he faltered. 

“Is the view not wonderful?” Rakesh asked as if he were looking at a particularly thrilling sunset.

Parvaaz did not hear him, his eyes instead fixated themselves on the one and only head that had been mounted on Chandan’s walls. 

Bodha’s head.

Singular. Striking. His white beard still flowing in the breeze, defiant to the very last. 

It stood alone on the battlements, a symbol of fear, of oppression of better times now long gone and dead. And yet all Parvaaz could see was the man that had once been, the strong vibrant old man who had made him and his companions, the Akhtari advisors, feel at home within Chandan’s walls, within enemy territory. To Parvaaz it had always seemed Botha could have taken on a thousand armies alone. And perhaps he could have, if the battle had been a clean one. Bodha had been undone by deceit and his own sense of honour. 

Parvaaz wished he could have done more.

When he and Rajni had first heard word of Rakesh’s escape from Kaali, they had taken their horses and a few armed soldiers in pursuit of him. They had ridden for only a few hours, being unable to find him, they had stopped at a clearing. It was here they were ambushed by the Dasmesh army that Rakesh had garnered when he had been masquerading as Mandhav, the heir to the Dasmesh keep. 

Parvaaz had fought with all he could and though he was no warrior he managed to survive where better soldiers than he had perished. 

At last when they thought they had Rakesh in their clutches, a rider had arrived along with soldiers. Some had been dressed in Mahanite livery and others in Akhtari. 

Parvaaz had recognised the rider as Kaali, and had relaxed. Though he had found it strange that they were not wearing the new colours of the Combined Nations of Mahan and Akhtar that was overridden by the relief of seeing the face of a friend. The separation had struck him as peculiar, but he had put it aside, Kaali was a fellow advisor, a trusted friend. He should have no reason to doubt him.

Rajni, by then, had brought Rakesh to his knees, sword to his throat. Ready to deliver the killing strike if need be. And perhaps that, her honour in treating an enemy with respect, had been her undoing.

“Help me tie him up Uncle,” she said, intending perhaps to bring him back to Kashatr.

  
  
Kaali had leapt off of his horse and walked towards Rajni.

He reached out as if to help her.

Then he had struck a blow at her temple so hard, she had fallen to the ground, her sword slipping from her fingers.

Rakesh had been freed.

“Take the soldiers in Akhtari livery,” Kaali had said, helping Rakesh up. “We need to make it look to outsiders as if the Akhtari have conquered Chandan. And remember my instructions for the tunnels. I will deal with these two.”

It was here that Parvaaz had understood the separation of colours. It was a defiance of all that they had worked for, a reversion to old enmity.

The soldiers in the Mahanite livery had raised Rajni from the ground so she stood on her knees, the side of her head bloodied from where Kaali had struck her. She had regained consciousness and looked now at Kaali, the man who had raised her alongside Chaman with an indignance and a fury defiant. Parvaaz too was brought down to his knees.

The knelt side by side.

Rajni spoke.

“Why?”

He still remembered the way she said it. Her voice laden with betrayal, hurt, and anger. 

“Because,” Kaali had said. “You have sullied the Eagle of Mahan, bred it with the foul Lion of Akhtar. You have defiled our brilliant blue with Akhtar’s red, made it purple. I will not stand for it. I will not see our nation whore herself to buy a few years of peace.”

“Not a few years,” Rajni had answered defiantly. “A century at the very least.”

“You are more a fool than I imagined,” Kaali said it with the voice of a father who has had to confront a wayward child, a child who had disappointed him at every turn.

Rajni had smiled “No the fool is you.”

In quick motion she had taken the rose hilt dagger from her side and had killed two of the soldiers who had held her down. Then she killed the soldiers that had guarded Parvaaz.

“Run!” she had shouted to Parvaaz, her last words to him. “Get out! Stop them! I’ll take care of Kaali.”

They both knew these tasks were as such that neither could achieve them by themselves. It was a task too ambitious too great for them alone. But they both knew that they would regret it if they did not at least try. 

So he had tried to stop Rakesh in his path leaving Rajni behind to deal with Kaali. 

In the end, however, he had been too late. By the time he had caught up to Rakesh, the city had been sacked and burned. He had made it just in time to see Bodha, noble proud Bodha, being forced to his knees, his long white hair and bear billowing in the wind, as Rakesh swung the sword, separating the head from the body. 

Parvaaz had cried out. He had been captured. And now he was here, standing beside Rakesh.

“You’re silent,” remarked Rakesh. “You do not even dare look at the city.”

“I simply take no pleasure in looking at where people were once slaughtered.” Parvaaz replied resolutely. “Were livelihoods had been destroyed.”

Rakesh smiled “I love how you nobles try to pretend you have not been doing this for centuries.”

“I am no noble.”

He had been the son of peasants, the youngest among eleven children. He had made his way through the Akhtari court with grit and determination. He would not have that undermined by noble-hating-better-than-thou traitor.

“You work for them,” said Rakesh. “They pay you. You live in the castle. You are not different from them. You-”

“What are you trying to do?” Parvaaz interrupted thoroughly sickened by Rakesh’s morning ritual.

He had been bringing him here every day at the crack of dawn to survey the sacked city of Chandan. At first Parvaaz had thought it some sort of humiliation. And in a way it was true. But he felt there was something more brewing, something more to this horrific ritual.

“Do you remember Kaali’s visit?”  
  


Parvaaz did not answer, but remembered well enough. Kaali had come soon after the sacking of Chandan, with Rajni’s rose-hilt dagger.

“Is the bitch dead?” Rakesh had asked.

“She will be,” Kaali had promised. “She escaped but with her injuries she will die within a few days.”

It was here that Kaali had noticed Parvaaz’s presence. He had frowned, before taking Rakesh away no doubt to discuss the next part of their plan without being eavesdropped upon. Parvaaz had not cared, only one thing had mattered to him

Rajni was still alive, which meant there was hope for them all still.

“I’m under orders,” continued Rakesh surveying the city once more. “I need to bring you to our side, whether by bribes, torture or seduction it does not matter.” he paused. “Though I suppose it is more so to keep me occupied.”

“Occupied?”

  
  
“Kaali is no fool,” said Rakesh. “He does not trust me. He intends to keep me busy, lulling me into some false notion that I am useful to him. And this task will take a while, you do not seem an easy man to break.” he turned to Parvaaz. “In truth he wants to keep here so that when King Aman comes to retake the city in all his fury and glory, I will be the figurehead, the puppet that needs to be beheaded.” 

He turned to the other side of the wall and gently stroked the white hair of Bodha’s head, as if drawing some sort of comparison. But Parvaaz would never dare sully Bodha’s name by comparing him to Rakesh.

“I am his scapegoat you see.” continued Rakesh. “And the perfect one. Aman will exact his revenge thinking I am a Dasmesh avenger who had served Kartik’s evil plans to conquer Mahan, he will never suspect that his dear advisor is capable of any sort of treachery. All of Kaali’s secrets die with me.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

  
  
Rakesh shrugged “Simply because I do not intend to do a nobleman’s bidding.”

~~~

It was said that the kings of the past could see into the future and it usually came to them in dreams. But when Kaali dreamt he dreamt of the past. His history haunted him like a mad spirit. He did not know what that made him, what was afterall the opposite of a king? 

In his dream he was there again on the road to Kashatr. It was two weeks before the Battle of the Broken Will had taken place. He had come into Shankar’s war tent. The other man had been sitting on his cot, not yet fully dressed. His eyes were unfocused, his hair in disarray. His sky blue chola unlaced. He looked as if he had gone far beyond the planes of this existence. 

“Shankar?” Kaali had asked.

The King had snapped out of his reverie and looked up at Kaali. His expression changed from its usual sternness to thoughtful introspection. An expression Kaali had not seen in years.

“Kaali,” he had whispered. “I had the strangest dream last night.”

“We all have strange dreams,” Kaali had promptly supplied, thoroughly disturbed by Shankar’s even stranger demeanour. “You need to get out of bed, the armies need to be roused they…”

“No you don’t understand,” Shankar said. “The dream. It felt...real. I felt everything as if it were truly happening before me, I can still feel it.”

There was a strangeness in him, and an earnestness that Kaali did not like, especially combined with the fact that Shankar had been advocating for the side of peace, urging them to send a a white banner. Every time Kaali had joked that Shankar had grown soft, taken up too many morals, Shankar would push him away. He could not have that again, not now, so Kaali decided to humour him.

“What did you dream of?” he asked.

Shankar paused before speaking “I dreamt that Aman was grown.”

Kaali had grinned, thinking of the then smiling eleven year old boy, with the most beautiful dark eyes he had ever seen. He loved him as his own son. And he hoped nothing but the best for him.

“Hopefully we will all live to see the day he is grown.” Kaali paused. “You know the kings of the past were able to see the future in their dreams and sometimes in their waking visions, that is before the Saapki died. I suppose the gods deemed you worthy enough to give you a vision of Aman as a war hero far surpassing his father. The Conqueror of Akhtar.”

He could almost see it. Aman’s bright eyes turned commanding. The slight build becoming fearsome and lithe under armour. Splattered in blood and holding the banner of Mahan proudly. In his mind Kaali had fashioned Aman Tripathi as his own personal prophet, a messiah in a belief and religion he held only unto himself, where he was the sole preacher and fanatic.

Shankar had shaken his head however at the notion of Aman in such a light. 

“My son is no conqueror Kaali. You know as well as I, it is not in his nature to destroy. You’ve seen him, stern though he is, he is gentle. I pray nothing changes that.”

That had also been something Kaali did not like. He had wanted Aman to go on fulfill the dream that he and Shankar had set out for. The whole subcontinent under the Eagle of Mahan. He could not do that if he remained gentle.

“What did you dream of then?”

“I dreamt of his marriage, I dreamt it happened in the temple in Kashatr, under Okhine’s gaze.” Shankar gave a strange smile. 

“I am sure some day we will find him a suitable woman. Or a man if he prefers. Though a woman would be more convenient considering heirs and-”

“I dreamt that he married the Akhtari King.” 

“Kartik Singh?” Kaali had questioned. “They boy King?”

  
  
“No other,” confirmed Shankar. “Truly Kaali, use that great mind of yours for once. What other Akhtari king is there now that Jagesh Singh is dead. Even if the old git were still alive I would not dare give my son to a man who is old enough to be his father.”

  
  
“But you would still give him to an Akhtari?”

  
  
“He and Kartik are of similar age, three years apart,” conceded Shankar. “And the fighting would stop if they married. What I would not do for even a small moment of peace.”

Dreams were absurd, Kaali knew. But he did not like the way Shankar was amused by this one. He even had the audacity to seem pleased by it.

“It is a strange dream.” Kaali admitted. “But it is what it is, a dream. Besides it may not have even been _them_. It may not have been Aman or the Akhtari scum. And it means nothing surely-”

  
  


Shankar shook his head “I would know my son in life or death Kaali, it was him undoubtedly. His eyes, they’re so striking have you noticed?”

“How do you know the other was this...Kartik Singh?”

“They wore each other’s colours, not each other’s exactly, they mixed them. Aman wore blue and silver and Kartik in red and gold. They held a winged lion on a lavender cloth between them. I saw them dance together afterwards. I saw the look on their eyes then. It was love.” Shankar looked down at his hands. “I could have excused the dream, brushed it aside, but for one thing. I was not angry at Aman. I did not hate him for it.” Shankar looked up at Kaali, his eyes had shone with tears. “I was proud of him Kaali. Proud.”

_Proud._

It was here that Kaali woke panting, in cold sweat.

He had thought he had forgotten about the memory, buried it so deep that none would be able to bring to the surface again. But he had been wrong. The dream had permeated every fear in him ever since Kartik had sent them the Bloody Necklace all those months.

He needed to execute his plan. He needed to do it quickly and thoroughly. 

But the dream haunted him still. After all, would Shankar have wanted all this?

The answer came in the image of the bloody banner returned. The banner that Kaali himself had stained with the blood of the messenger - a necessary sacrifice. He remembered the way Shankar’s face had fallen when he saw his efforts of peace go awry. 

No Shankar would not have wanted this.

_And that is why you drugged his wine,_ a voice whispered. _The day of the battle, he no longer served your purposes so you decided to discard him, the man you considered a brother. You decided to fashion Aman into the man you wanted to be. You killed Shankar Tirpathi; it should be you who Aman should seek vengeance against, not the Akhtari King._

Kaali rose from his bed, thrusting the intrusive thoughts from his mind. He put on his clothes and decided to start on the next part of his plan. The sooner it would be executed the better. 

He walked out the door heading towards the cells where Kartik was being held.

As he walked through the halls he noticed Kusum walking in his general direction. He had not seen her since court yesterday and not for the first time he felt the guilt with him rise, seeing her haggard expression. He still remembered the way Rajni looked at him as he had fought her, injured her. 

The look of utter betrayal.

_You loved her as your own daughter and you practically killed her._

_A necessary sacrifice._ He tried to assure herself.

But he knew Kusum was not entirely an innocent victim in all this. The fool Rakesh had admitted to being her lover, admitted to the plan he had concocted with Kusum. Perhaps her grief was a ruse, perhaps she was an ally. He decided to test out his theory as soon as they were within hearing distance.

“Kusum,” he started. “My dear, I’m sorry to have brought such terrible news. Rajni’s death has affected us all greatly. If there is anything I can do-”

Kusum’s eyes met his, not unlike Rajni’s own had been the last he saw her, fiery and red, laced with pride and defiance. 

“I want her dagger.”

“It will be used for evidence…”

“I do not care,” she narrowed her eyes. “I will kill whoever it was who killed her and I will do it with her own dagger..”

“You already know who he is Kusum,” said Kaali. “ _Intimately_ if my information is correct.”

She stiffened and Kaali knew that she understood he was referring to Rakesh.

“He told you then.” she whispered.

“All that and more. Tell me whose side are you on?”  
  
She was silent taking the information, calculating the options. She looked Kaalu over, her eyes raking him thoroughly, so thoroughly they were bound to wound.

“The side that will let me behead the man who killed my Rajni.” she said resolutely.

“Then I promise,” said Kaali, with a certain triumph. “I promise that when we retake Chandan under the banner of Mahan, he will be handed straight to you.”

She regarded him once and nodded.

“Her dagger.” she said simply before walking away.

~~~

Kartik had not slept and he supposed there were probably many reasons for this. The first being that he no longer had access to his medicine, both for his nightmares and for his old shoulder injury. Even if the pain had not kept him awake the whole time, he would not have allowed himself to sleep, in fear for the terrors that lay in his dreams.

And besides his heart ached and hungered too terribly for him to indulge in something as sweet as slumber. It hungered for the warmth of Aman’s hands, his touch, steady, firm and healing. He could not stop thinking of him. The way he would smile uncontrollably after Kartik would kiss his cheek, the way he would sit by the window accompanied by the moonlight and the piercing notes of the sitar. He remembered the way he would laugh, the way he would sometimes weep in Kartik’s arms. He remembered the warmth of his body and the softness of his lips. He missed him.

He roiled and raged too. A part of him, the vindictive part, would hope that Aman was hurting, hoped that Aman was breaking just as surely as he himself was. But it was only a small part of him, the rest of him knew that it was ridiculous. He trusted Aman enough to know that somehow he would realise the truth. The sooner the better.

He had spent his time in the cell trying to retrace his steps, wondering where he had gone wrong, what he had done to allow Aman to distrust him. All his mind would offer him was the image of his husband weeping the throne room, his hands bleeding. And Kartik could not do anything to wipe away his tears, or help heal his hands.

Kartik longed to be with him, longed to see him again, to speak with him, even once. He longed for more light than the stray shafts of sunlight that would bless him shortly each day. He longed for a morsel of food, a drop of water. 

He longed to be free. 

As soon as the thought manifested itself, the door of the prison cell opened to reveal Kaali striding in, with an expression so thoroughly disturbed that Kartik felt a smug sort of satisfaction at whatever had caused the distress in Kaali.

“I hope you slept well.” said Kaali. 

Kartik looked up at him, revealing his burning red eyes in all their naked rage, in all their worn out glory. He looked up at his tormentor and saw that despite his own shackled state, Kaali was afraid of him. There was a certain pride that rose in Kartik at that moment though he knew this would not end well for him. 

Fear afterall was the gateway to cruelty.

He ventured at a question anyway. He said the words slowly, clearly, softly.

“Why am I here Kaali?”

  
  
Kaali did not answer, he walked towards the Kartik until there were only a few inches separating them. He studied Kartik as if he were some fascinating specimen, someone far beneath him. As if he were nothing but scum. He sneered.

“Guess.”

Kartik did not need to take time to ponder. He already knew but had been too blinded by his own kindness and his own trust in this man to see it. 

“You hate me,” said Kartik, the words though fully realised in his mind were something his heart had not yet accepted. They were difficult to even speak. “You hate me. I do not know why but it is clear that you do. I may be getting a trial and you may have enough evidence to frame me for betrayal but that is not enough for you. But you won’t take risks. No you intend to torture me until I myself submit and lie under oath at the trial. You intend to humiliate me.”

“You’re cleverer than I took you for,” Kaali admitted with a cruel twist of his lip. “But not all that clever it seems. You see, I am not prepared to take _any_ risks. You will _never_ have a chance to speak at court.”

It took a few moments for the words to sink in, but in the end Kartik understood. Kaali meant to kill him.

“Aman will never forgive you if you kill me,” he whispered. “Whether he thinks me a traitor or not. He still has honour.”

“Aman will never know I have killed you.”

“You underestimate him,” Kartik said the words confidently, he knew Aman better than he knew anybody. He knew that his husband was truly a force to be reckoned with. “He is not the little boy who once sat on your lap. You cannot presume to know him. Mark my words Kaali, one day he will use your own tricks against you.”

Kaali shook his head, the callous twist of his lips sharpening with black humour.

“How touching, you still have faith in him even now. But no, you underestimate _me_ ” Kaali picked up Kartik’s now destroyed kalgi from the floor studingy it. “Everyone knows you to be an honourable man. Everyone also knows that suicides are also traditional ways for the Akhtari Kings to escape their enemies when all is lost. The Last Act, as you call it in your country.”

The tradition was an ancient one, one that Kartik had abolished. He had been on the edge of death before, he had walked that particular path of knives. And all he could say to his ancestors were, how dare they. How dare they glorify the destruction of one’s self, how dare they celebrate it. How dare it be the last option before all honour is gone.

“If my death is the crux of your plan, then why not kill me now?” he spat the words.

Kaali looked up from Kartik’s broken Kalgi. He considered Kartik’s question, instead of answering he placed the derelict shattered thing in Kartik’s hair, tangling the strands of jewels through Kartik’s hair, keeping it in place and upright.

Kartik stepped back and admired his handiwork. 

This was answer enough. 

It was humiliation he sought.

“Who are you?” Kaali asked, dark eyes unfocused, maddened.

Kartik looked at him proudly, tilting his chin, displaying the broken shards of his kingship with pride. 

“I am Kartik Singh Tripathi, the rightful king of the combined nations of Mahan and Akhtar. I am a husband, a brother, a son. I will one day be a father, a grandfather and you will not take that away from me.”  
  


As soon as the words escaped his lips Kartik was struck across the face. The impact was jarring, he could feel the crack of bones, miniscule fractures in his jaw. He could taste his own blood pooling in his mouth spilling out of his lips, steadily. 

Kaali grasped the hair on the back of Kartik’s, pulling it back so his dazed and bloodied features were facing Kaali.

“No,” he whispered. “You are none of that. Your kind killed my family and I will take my vengeance. You and your kind are shit. Scum. Remember that.”  
  
Vengeance. It all came back to that hateful word. It dogged Kartik, shadowed his every waking moment. And why? Why vengeance? 

It was a cycle of bloodshed, he realised. The wounds of war created on the impressionable went so deep that there could be no cure for them. They did not try to heal. No, they sought sadistic pleasure in seeing others go through the same pain, to prove that those grievances had not made them monsters. To prove they were not alone in their pain.

Aman had been the first to break the cycle. The first to seek a cure. But even now that seemed lost.

He hated the way Kaali referred to those who were Akhtari as shit. Scum.

All because they had been born on another piece of land, because they spoke a different tongue, because their customs were different. 

“My kind,” spat Kartik. “Are the same as yours. My kind, are not some lowly animal, or another species. We are the same as you. We are human. More human than you it seems.”

He spat in Kaali’s face, blood and all.

The rage in Kaali’s eyes told Kartik he had dug himself into such a terrible nightmare, that even his dreams, his nightly torments, would feel like a reprieve in comparison. At least they would be comforting in their familiarity, the gods only knew what Kaali had in store for him.

_You can show a united front under the lavender banner all you like._ A voice in Kartik’s head whispered as Kaali moved closer. _But as long as the combined nations are not given one name, all your hopes and dreams will be for nothing._

* * *

[Evermore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXLgZZE072g) (Taylor Swift)- For Kartik reminiscing

[Achilles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNpHrXpn0YY) (Gareth Fernandez) - For general vibes

[Nightshade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wi8Y2GQxOfg) (The Lumineers) - For Kaali and Kartik situation

[Hopeless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bc0Wh-DQx7Y) (Halsey) - Also general vibes

[Champion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uhEictEW_c) (Fall Out Boy) - Kartik and Parvaaz’s defiance

* * *

Confession time:

Rajni is not dead. She was never meant to die. Look I wasn't going to destroy my major wlw ship. So hi yeah I fooled you all :)

Though Rajni is safe and sound, I cannot say the same for the others.

In short:

  



	53. The Window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you first and foremost to everyone who has been so supportive during this past month. Things are looking up with the whole COVID situation.
> 
> Special mentions to Ellezaria and Mohana for their amazing art on the Bloody Necklace and Kartik and Aman's wedding respectively. Their art will be linked at the end. Give them all the love they deserve <3
> 
> I'm a little rusty on the writing end so it might be awkward at parts. But I hope you guys like it.

For me hope lies not in spring or summer

But rather in the frosty winter’s cold

That day the flame burned brighter

Than the countless folktales still untold

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Despite knowing what had just happened Devika was not sure she had processed any of it even now. Not truly. She knew that Kartik was imprisoned, she knew that Rajni was dead. But it did not feel real. 

Devika sat in her rooms, on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. She wanted to cry, but she had been, up until now, unable to do so. It was something she had never let herself do unless it was in the comfort of Kartik’s arms. He was and, it seemed, still was the only person she felt she could be vulnerable around. His arms, his words, held a safety and comfort that even solitude did not. 

Her inability to cry only served to remind her that she was all alone. 

It was strange to think that only yesterday she had been surrounded by warmth. 

She still remembered, a clear as if it were glass, how Kartik had been trying to get Gabru off the table, while Aman had been laughing hysterically at his antics egging Gabru to commit more heinous acts to Kartik’s breakfast (a situation had once occurred in reverse only three months ago in Khorshid). Sunaina had been rolling her eyes, while trying to point out some sort of stitching pattern in Kusum’s embroidery. Qabid was benignly talking of the benefits of nightshade with Ravi, as if Gabru was not furiously eating at Kartik’s breakfast, while Devika and Keshav had been trying hard not to laugh.

Only yesterday had she thought that the rest of her life would be filled with love and laughter. She wanted to call herself a fool, but in truth none of them had seen it coming. Not even her.

She could still remember the way the shock had permeated through the throne room. The stillness and the burgeoning tears. She remembered the way her heart seemed to have stopped beating at that very moment, when Rajni’s death had been announced and Kartik’s name had been denounced in the same breath by that bastard Kaali. She had lost sense of time and space, as if a fog had risen to screen her, to obscure her thoughts and very actions. 

Nothing seemed to penetrate that haze. The reactions of all those around her, barely registered. The blood that ran down Aman’s palms, only served to heighten the sense of unreality.

_ This could not be real.  _

_ This could not be happening.  _

The barely conscious part of her mind seemed to want to tell her it was all a dream. 

_ Aman could not do this to Kartik.  _

_ No one would want to do this to Kartik.  _

Yet it  _ was _ happening, it  _ had _ happened and as much as she wanted to blame him she knew it had not been Aman’s fault. She had seen that clearly enough yet even Kaali’s gloating features, so obvious and grotesque to her, could not spur her to action. And she regretted it. Perhaps if she had spoken up then and there she could have eased things, convinced Aman otherwise. 

She was proud of Nasireh, but also envious. They had been the only one to rise to Kartik’s defence, when he had been put in chains. The only one to speak with anger at the outrage that was being done to Kartik, their king. When they had eventually left the throne room in a fit of rage and fury denouncing Aman, Devika felt her own incompetence, but most of all a sense of loneliness. 

And yet still her body had refused to obey her. 

It was only when Kartik, being led away, had given them all one final look, did Devika finally manage to break through the haze that had been binding her fast.

But by then it had been too late.

She had been too late. 

And so she had decided to do the one thing that still remained within her grasp. The only thread of power she had left. She could not manipulate her new circumstances to her own choosing, she could not change her inaction in the past. But she could control her own reaction.

She could rage as Nasireh had done. And while that had been a brilliant, glittering act of defiance in its own right, it was not what Devika wanted.

She had decided to go with all the grace and understanding she could muster. 

Let it be known to Kaali, that while the Akhtari were as brave as Nasireh, they also were calm and collected in the face of a crisis.

But as she sat in her bed, she felt defeated. She knew in her own way, there was still hope yet, that Kartik was still to have a trial. But would  _ that _ victory be worth the pain they would  _ all _ go through? The pain they had  _ already _ gone through?

Devika was not sure. 

In all this chaos she had not even started trying to unpack Rajni’s death. Rajni who had been there since the beginning on this crazed journey of Kartik and Aman’s marriage, the joining of these two nations. Rajni who with her crazed laugh and stern demeanour, could shape even the most rabid group of soldiers into the pride of the two nations, within a matter of weeks. Rajni who was her friend. Rajni who she would exchange stories with in the dead of the night over some wine, as they stayed up late nights together in order to finish paperwork.

She still remembered walking with her and Kusum in the gardens joking that she felt like an unnecessary third.

Rajni could not be dead. She-

There was a knock at her door and Devika gave a start. 

Ever since she was practically branded a traitor she had assumed she would spend her time in almost complete loneliness until Kartik’s trial. She did not think anyone would even want to see her, let alone be allowed into her room.

“Who is it?” she questioned. 

She briefly wondered whether it was an assassin. Sent by Kaali, it would make sense, she could testify for Kartik’s innocence, perhaps not enough for the ‘evidence’ to be discredited, but enough for there to be doubts. Disposing of her would benefit him. Her hand quickly went to the jewelled dagger.

“Ravi,” came the familiar voice of the man himself. Devika instinctively relaxed. “I am here to take your confession.”

The latter part of his announcement disappointed her a little. So he was not here to simply see  _ her _ . Devika decided, however,  _ this _ would be better than nothing. She was not sure how much longer she could bear the loneliness.

“Come in,” she said.

And so the door to her room opened and Ravi entered.

He was dressed immaculately in his black robes held up by bone clasps. Often she would muse about how easy it would be to simply undo the clasp and let the robes fall to the floor, to reveal him in all her glory, but today she regarded his priest’s robes with trepidation.  _ I’m here to take your confession.  _ He had said. He probably did not care for her.

“Why are you here?” she asked. 

Ravi did not answer her immediately, his flickered to the door where the guards stood. He drew the dagger from his belt. Devika drew her own, preparing for a fight. 

It did not come.

The door behind him closed.

Ravi lowered the dagger and placed it on the table.

“As a priest it is one of my duties to see a traitor or their accomplices to make them confess to the crime hopefully before the trial by any means possible,” he raised his hands in surrender. “In truth I came because I thought you might need a friend.”

_ Friend. _

Devika lowered her dagger. So he had in fact come, not out of duty, but some sort of feeling for. The very thought swelled in her heart, like music would to a person had been deaf for ten years. It was a glorious feeling. But a dreadful one too.

“It seems Ravi,” she said. “You are my one and only friend.”

Rajni was dead and so was Parvaaz most likely. Kartik was imprisoned. Aman a thrall to grief and betrayal. Nasireh had left Shafaq in anger. Kusum and Keshav were in mourning. All her friends were gone in one way or another. Except Ravi.

He walked towards her and sat down beside her on the bed, a tantalising few inches away from her. 

“I tried to see Kartik this morning by exercising my duty as a priest,” said Ravi. “Kaali would not let me in. I wanted to give you news of him before I came here. I know how much he means to you.”

Kartik had been her brother, more than her brother in truth. Friends from the womb, it almost felt as if their bond transcended life and death itself, embryonic, forged from blood. She wondered how he was, she worried for him. She knew his self-sacrificing, self-destructive tendencies in a way that Aman did not. At least not yet. 

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I’m sure Aman would have let you see him, have you tried asking him? All things considered, he would not deny this. I know him that much.”

At Aman’s name Ravi hung his head.

“Aman has not left his rooms since Kartik’s arrest yesterday,” he said. “I did not wish to disturb him. I’m sorry.”

“He was very shaken,” she answered. “Understandably. He loved him, I would never have thought it possible but...I think after he thinks through it, he will understand it. It will take him time, it always does. He sure took his damn time deciding whether he would marry Kartik or not. But he’ll realise in the end. He always does”

She did not know whether she was speaking the truth, or trying to convince herself that this was truth. 

Ravi nodded sagely, taking her words in silence.

“You took it well,” he said. “You were very strong in the throne room, stronger than I would have been, stronger than anyone I think. For that I admire you ardently.” 

And yet she had still let Kartik be taken.

“Ravi,” she found herself saying. “I’m not...I’m not alright.”

He placed an arm around her and brought her into an embrace, closing the distance between them.

“I do not know if this will help but I believe you.” he said quietly. “We have all faced odds to get where we are today, I believe the gods will not let that go to waste. I do not believe this world to be a cruel one”

At his words she pressed her face against his chest and wept. And though her heart was scraped so raw with grief that it bled, she marvelled too that even now, there was still someone who hoped for the best, there was still someone believed, and was willing to give her a shoulder to lean on.

~~~

Aman’s face haunted her. His gleaming weeping eyes. His bleeding hands. All symbols poised and turned towards her, as if to say:

_ I care. _

Of course Aman did and Nasireh knew it too. Yet that did not mean she was not angry. That did not mean that she was not frustrated that Aman could not see the truth right before his eyes, though he claimed to love Kartik, beyond all else. 

She could tell herself all she wanted that she had set out to right a wrong.

But that was not true. 

When she had stormed out of the palace she had gone because she had not been able to stand it, seeing Kartik brought so low. Ever since she had been young, she had looked up to Kartik, (not literally of course, she had always been taller than he was). 

He had always been someone she idolised, a king, a warrior, a friend. To her he had been the kind of king she would lay down her life for in an instant, should he ask it. She had known it, ever since they were children fighting with wooden swords growing up as siblings-in-arms, under the tutelage of her father Parmesh. 

Nasireh admired Kartik, but that did not mean she was blind to his faults. She had known about his recklessness, his annoying sense of self sacrifice and his years struggling with opium addiction, she knew about his overdose three years ago, Nasireh had seen the signs. She knew Kartik did not tell her, not for the lack of trust, but rather because he did not want to see her admiration for him lessen. 

For years she had wanted to tell him that she never thought any less of him, but was not sure how to approach it without hurting Kartik. And now it seemed that she would never be able to tell him.

Aman should have known. Aman should-

No. She could not blame Aman. He was just as lost as they all were, if not even more so. 

Nasireh had initially left out of anger and disgust at Aman, those feelings had petered out. They flared again from time to time, but even those were becoming rarer.

She knew that her anger would never have remained for long. In truth she loved Aman too much for that. She admired him as much as she admired Kartik, if not more so. And besides she had been genuinely happy that Kartik had found someone who could keep him steady and grounded, someone who he could tell everything to. In her eyes, the political advantage of this marriage was merely a bonus to the emotional stability they seemed to provide each other.

Aman too was her king, her friend and in time he would see that Kartik was not lying. But Nasireh was not sure they had that time. She had seen the way Kaali had looked at Kartik, the hatred for a whole nation focused on one man. She knew that somehow Kaali would sabotage the trial. And she could not let that happen. 

She would have liked to claim that she had set out for an aim when she had left Shafaq and that aim was to stop Kaali in his tracks. 

But she had not.

That did not mean however that could not give herself an aim now.

And so she had resolved to find Parvaaz and Rajni, some sort of evidence to help Kartik in his trial, or at the very least bring the dead bodies of her friends home for a proper burial. She would do this for Kartik, for her friends or die trying. 

Nasireh urged her stallion Milkha forward. She felt sorry for the horse, he was more tired than she was, having ridden all afternoon and well into the night. It was near morning and she needed to stop sometime soon or Milkha might give way beneath her. She cared too much for the horse for that to happen.

Milkha was was a gift from Qabid almost fifteen years ago. The old man, a lover of horses, had bought four foals, with the money he saved as a physician. He had given one to each of them, and kept one for himself. She could still remember Qabid’s words to them all.

“Now, these horses are special, do you know why?”

Kartik had not cared for Qabid’s teachings “Why does Nasir get the biggest one? He’s younger than I and not even a prince.”

Fifteen years ago, eight years of age, Kartik had been somewhat of a spoiled brat and Nasireh, six years old, then going by her old name Nasir, had been offended and confused. Being taller than Kartik she had always assumed more of an authority over him, at least when it came to wrestling. 

“Because,” Qabid explained mildly. “Nasir will grow to be quite tall, taller than most people I dare say, and he needs a steady mount. Now  _ you _ Kartik did not answer my question.”   
  
“Are they a special breed?” Devika had asked.

Eight years old and she had been frighteningly discerning. Not much had changed on that front.

“Of a sort,” Qabid had admitted. “The horses of Balkar, are many different breeds in truth, but it is the land from which they come from that makes them special. They say since the land of Balkar has been blessed by Okhine himself in the ancient days, any horse that is born there grows stronger than the average horse. In their lifetime they only permit one rider to mount them, and if their rider dies before them it is said they will return to Balkar.”

The three children had stood by fascinated.

“How do we know they will let us mount?” Nasireh had asked, eyes wide. 

“Simple you name them.”

Devika named her horse Riha meaning the wind. She proved to be a flighty beast and the fastest of the four, Devika’s constant companion even to this day.

Kartik had named his Barsam, meaning great fire, a kingly name, a name meant for a war horse. In the end the stallion had been killed in the Battle of the Broken Will. A war horse, in both its name and its death.

Qabid had named his own horse a magnificent silver mare, Mehak, meaning perfume, though Nasireh had no idea why. All horses to her in those days had smelt like hay and dung. None-the-less Qabid had cared for Mehak, nurtured her so well, that Kartik had often joked that Qabid should adopt the horse as his daughter.

Qabid had given the last horse to Nasireh, he had chosen it specifically for its size. 

“What will you be naming your horse?” he had asked.

“Milkha,”

It was a joke, one that Parmesh had understood. When Nasireh had been younger, three years of age to be exact, she had been in the habit of calling horses not by the Akhtari,  _ hisan,  _ but had gotten it confused (somehow) with the ancient Akhtari word for duck,  _ milikha.  _

_ Milkha _ , meaning ruler, was similar enough that Parmesh would have understood the joke, but different enough that everyone else would simply see a fitting name for a particularly tall horse.

Ever since then Milkha had been Nasireh’s pride and joy. She often mused he had all the grace of a duck on water and all the majesty of a king.

But now, Nasireh could feel Milkha's laboured breath, she could feel the sweat on his coat. He was neither like a duck nor a king, expect perhaps in name.

“We’re almost there.” she promised, not sure if the horse understood.

She was not lying, for indeed in the distance there was a village. It was a peculiar village not quite large enough to be a city, but still had the privilege of a wall. As Nasireh drew closer to the walls she saw a man guarding it with a makeshift spear.

Nasireh’s warrior training took his stature and stance in, she instantly knew that if they fought it would not be a fair fight. Not even if she fought the villager without her own weapons, her axe, her arrows and her sword, all of which were currently strapped to her saddle. The man did not look like a fighter, a farmer, a boy of sixteen merely doing his duty.

“Who are you and what is your business here in Ilham?” the boy called out once she was in hearing range. He raised his spear.

“I am Nasireh,” she said nervously. She should have used a different name, but the boy would have realised anyway. She was too tall to not be recognised. She cursed her height and briefly wondered whether the villagers had heard the news of Kartik’s alleged treachery, she decided in the end to take a chance. “I am here to rest for the day, I have been riding all afternoon and all night, I am making my way to Chandan, on business of the Kings Kartik and Aman”

“Nasireh of Shafaq?” the villager asked, he lowered his spear and smiled. “I should have realised it was you, you are just as the songs describe you. With the gold in your hair and your imposing height.”

Nasireh let out a sigh of relief. So the news had not spread. But something else startled her.

“Songs?” Nasireh did not think herself having achieved anything worthy of a song.

“Your loss to Rajni at the Bahaduri has become legend, did you not know?”

Nasireh shook her head. 

“You showed such honour, by throwing down your axe so the fight would be equal.” his eyes fell to the axe at her saddle. “Is this the same axe?”   
  
“The one and only.”

  
“We would be honoured to have you in Ilham,” the boy turned to open the gates. “My name is Ehsan.”

Nasireh’s mind ran through the logistics of it all. She could not step foot in the village, it would only be a matter of time before they found out about Kartik’s trial. It would be better to be situated somewhere where she would not be surrounded by walls and people to trap her, when they eventually found. The gods only knew where their loyalties lay. 

“Ehsan, though I am sure the hospitality of your village is equal to none, I must refuse, my business in Chandan is urgent, I shall rest outside the village gates and help you guard the gates,” she saw how Ehsan’s face brightened at the notion.

“Very well, I will have some of the people bring you more food and necessities for your journey,” Ehsan said excitedly. “You know, I cannot say I have ever heard or read of anyone else called Nasireh, it is a beautiful name.”   
  
Nasireh smiled. “The name is my own invention, I am the first of my name, though hopefully not the last.”

When she had been younger, she had been given the name Nasir. In truth, for most of her early life she had accepted it, the name, she accepted being a boy. But as she grew she realised there were days when she preferred her sisters to consider her another sister, when she preferred to be called Lady, rather than Lord. She had asked people, on certain days, to call her Nasira, the feminine form of Nasir. 

Though more often that name did not sit right either. Neither names did.

She had come to realise that while some days, her gender was as clear as cut glass, on most days it was complicated, something she had not the energy to figure out, sometimes it was the embodiment of many or none at all. 

She did not want to have to spend her days switching between names that did not fit her wholly. Thus Nasireh came into being. 

Neither masculine or feminine but entirely her own.

“If I shall ever have a child,” said Ehsan. “I would like to name them after you.”   
  
Nasireh bowed her head, despite everything she found herself grinning “I would be more than honoured.”

Though the name was her own, she did not mind sharing.

~~~

“You’ve always made excellent beer,” Rakesh remarked at the portly middle aged innkeeper, Ganaki. “That’s why I kept you around.”

Ganaki did not answer but merely poured him more of the beer. Parvaaaz could see the hatred in her eyes, simmering, like the slowly increasing heat on a blade being held over a flame. Rakesh did not seem to notice, satisfied with the refurbishment of alcohol in his goblet, he turned his attention to Parvaaz.

“You have not eaten.” he remarked.

Parvaaz shrugged “I have no appetite”

Rakesh took Parvaaz’s plate “More for me then”

He dug in, eating ravenously, as if it were his first meal in days. Parvaaz had seen him eat three meals in the last hour alone, while the rest of the city starved.

Parvaaz looked around him, it was the same room that he had once dined in, with the rest of the family. Kartik and Aman would be at the head of the table instead of Rakesh. The rest of the family and the advisors would fill seats, instead of this emptiness. There would be laughter, cursing, conversations of philosophy instead of Rakesh’s incessant gloating. They would all be helping themselves instead of having servants wait on them.

They had been happy then. Parvaaz would do anything to go back to that time.

He looked up at Ganaki again. He wondered what thoughts lay behind her anger. Was it the loss of family and friends? Did it mingle with the loss of nations as well?

He wished, though he knew it to be an impossibility being one man against thousands, he wished he could have done more, he wished he could have prevented all of this, the massacre and the sacking of the city. He often wondered what the people thought of him, seeing him beside Rakesh on the battlements everyday. Did they detest him?

He hoped not.

Surely, surely they had not forgotten how he had once stood tall by the kings, how he had been instrumental in brokering this peace. The marriage between them was after all his idea. Surely they had not forgotten how he had tried to save Bodha, how he had cried out against Rakesh, how he had resisted arrest. 

A messenger entered the room. 

“My Lord,” It did not sound right on the messenger’s tongue, not with Bodha dead and Rakesh taking the title. “A message has come by bird, from Kaali.”

Rakesh rose from his seat, not caring for the food he had until now been ravenously devouring. He did not even bother to wipe his hands, greased and stained as they were. He left without saying a word, in a manner that told Parvaaz he was afraid, afraid of the message, afraid of Kaali.

Ganaki was the only person in the room but Parvaaz did not speak to her, his mind was focused entirely on something else.

_ A message by bird. _

After the marriage, new trades between the two nations had opened up. Outside the exchange of cottons, silks and other luxuries one of most important exchanges, politically, was one that of homing pigeons so as to help with communication between the two nations. 

Kaali would not order the killing of Khorshid’s homing pigeons just yet. They could still prove to be useful to him.

And to Parvaaz.

A semblance, a sliver of an idea had come to Parvaaz’s mind, and he needed help. He needed her help. He had not been able to contact Bodha’s men or anyone who could possibly have firm loyalties to the two the two kings, not since they had been imprisoned or killed. She was his only avenue.

But he needed to know how deep her loyalties lay. 

“You were an innkeeper?” he questioned.

She looked up at him, startled from her angered daze.

“And you are King Kartik’s Head Librarian,” she said. 

“Was,” he said. “I am Head Librarian of both nations.”

Ganaki raised a brow as his title “You have not lost hope then?”

“If we don’t have hope, we have nothing,” he looked up at her. “Do you have family?”

Her eyes misted over, “My husband was killed during the massacre, my children do not live in Chandan anymore.”

“And your Inn?”

“It was not burned, not wholly,” she answered. “It could be rebuilt if the gods grant us freedom from this tyranny. It was called the Inn of the Laughing Moon.”

Parvaaz recognised the name, it was the same inn where Kartik and Aman had once gone together undercover, to meet and speak with Southern traders as possible suspects for the attacks on Kashatr. Parvaaz’s heart sank at the thought, the innocent thought that the threat had come from the outside. None of them had thought that treachery lay in the very heart of their very counsel. 

If Parvaaz ever saw Kaali again he would kill him.

“The Inn was a favourite of our King Aman,” continued Ganaki.

“Aman?” Parvaaz questioned. He sat up intrigued. He knew Aman only as a king, this was entirely new to him.

“Oh yes, for five years now, he would come to the inn, disguised as Quasar the King’s Gentleman of the Chamber. Fooled most people.”

“But it did not fool you did it?” he urged.

“No,” her voice grew soft, as if she was fondly relaying the story of a favourite son. “I saw the patterns and besides I am an innkeeper, when you have worked as long as I have certain faces become familiar to you. And those eyes of his. Have you noticed how striking they are? I do not think I have ever seen any quite as beautiful.”

“What do you mean when you say you saw the patterns?”

“You see he first came to my inn when he was sixteen,” she said. “It was a few weeks after the Phulantari festival, shortly after that milksop of a noble, Vakul I think, had spread rumours that he had fucked him. A vile thing to do to anyone, but worse for a king. He was a sad thing, our King Aman. He sat unmoving, not drinking, ignoring all romantic advances that came his way. When he finally moved it was to ask me for a room.”

“And you gave him one?”

“Yes,” she shrugged. “He was gone by morning, he left money behind and escaped through the window.”

“The window?” he did not take Aman to be so flighty.

“The window,” she confirmed. “I noticed he always came when there was not something going on in court or when there were terrible things happening, that would cause him stress. I put the two and two together. Later as he grew in confidence, got into fights, took lovers to bed, he still took the same room and escaped by that same window, often leaving behind abandoned heartbroken lovers and money for me.”

Parvaaz remembered Aman the last he saw him, smiling beside Kartik, looking up at his husband as if there was no one else in the room. He seemed to have come a long way from that time. As if on the same line of thought Ganaki continued.

“He has changed you know.” she paused. “He brought King Kartik to the inn once you know, I suppose to share a part of his life with him. Your Akhtari king is charming, even if he did pronounce a few of our words strangely.”   
  
Parvaaz knew better than her. Aman had not gone to show Kartik a part of his life, both of them had gone undercover, to seek out possible enemies. He let Ganaki tell him the tale, however, as if he were hearing it for the first time. Something told him this anecdote meant something to her.

“What happened?”

Ganaki laughed, “They were very amorous with each other. Or at least I think they were. I was not sure actually half the time it looked as if they were arguing.”   
  


“That has always been the way between them,” Parvaaz said, fondly reminiscing all of the bantering between the two kings.   
  
“The dog of theirs interrupted their kiss and in a matter of minutes they had gotten into a fight with the Southerners.”

Parvaaz let out a chuckle. He remembered how the two of them, like little boys, had denied being in any way involved in the fight, kings though they were. 

“I suppose that marked the end of Aman’s window-escaping days?” he asked.

“Far from it,” she grinned. “The window was still used, except this time...they escaped  _ together _ when the Southerners gave chase.” She paused. “That was when I knew he was happy, perhaps in mortal danger, but truly happy. That was when I allowed myself to hope for the better of both our nations. He would not plunge us into war.” she lowered her gaze. “But I think hope is lost now.”

Parvaaz marvelled at the story. It was strange how the same tale held entirely different meanings for different people. For Parvaaz it had been a tale of a successful yet risky escapade for the betterment of their nations, nothing more. For Kartik and Aman, it had possibly been a night of ribaldry, a night of fighting, of risk and love, mingled with political duty. 

But for Ganaki it had been a tale of hope. And Parvaaz would not let her lose that hope, not for as long as he lived.

“Hope is not lost,” he assured her. “Ganaki, I’m going to try and save Chandan, to help our kings, but I need your help.”

__________

Songs:

[ Bhaag Milkha Bhaag OG (not rock) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=neIYLnOHkpw)

Link [Ellezaria](https://www.instagram.com/p/CJrDuWVlrBy/) and [Mohana's](https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/17891351245555376/) art

  
  



	54. The King's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in dedicated to Johnny (@ayushmann_simp_club on insta) 
> 
> This was always going to be dedicated to you because your amazing art for TGM that motivated me to get this done (linked below give him all the love). 
> 
> But this is doubly dedicated because it is your birthday. Happy Birthday you amazing talented human. I'm sorry I couldn't do a proper present thing but I hope the dedication will serve. Thank you first and foremost for being an absolute blessing to the fandom both with your enthusiasm and all your art which gives us all life. I hope you have a fantastic bloody day and year and life. You keep doing you and please remember to look after yourself, stay hydrated and get some rest, good lord.

It is in the twilight of the world

That the question comes in blood and ice

Could you tear apart your dignity

And offer it up as sacrifice?

-Extract from _The Glass Mosaic_

Aman did not recall the next few days. The lines of alacrity had blurred, shifting so impossibly between startling dreams and dull aching reality, he could not tell which was which in earnest. The sense of unreality seemed to heighten with what felt like a fever. 

It would almost as if he existed outside this particular plane of existence, hanging, floating listlessly, passively between this world and the next. If it were not for the chills, the hot flushes and the aches that plagued his body so acutely, reminding him of his own feebleness, his fallibility, his mortality, he would have thought himself dead. 

His dreams were so vivid they seemed to leap and shudder within the confines of his consciousness until it was completely shattered. They were strange visions. Visions of a future he had once allowed himself to believe to be a reality. A future with Kartik and the rest of his family. And he allowed himself to succumb to it wholly in his suffering. He allowed himself to truly believe that the hallucinations were, in fact, his life. 

He allowed himself to believe he had been sitting by the fire of their room, smiling, as a grey haired Kartik read him a poem. He could almost believe himself holding hands with a young girl, Sarai, somehow his daughter. She was guiding him towards Kartik, who stood their two sons, sitting aloft on his shoulders. And his shoulder, Aman had realised with a smile, it was completely healed.

He wanted to slip into this reality forever, live the rest of his life as an illusion. So he let the dreams come over him, he clung to them desperately. They were not linear, they shifted into one another and sometimes they repeated. But there was a thing of beauty in them. Sunshine, brilliance and happiness, happiness most of all.

After what felt like an eternity of bliss it all changed, there was a sudden leach of colour. 

This dream was not tranquil. It came in flashes, like lightning strikes. One after the other, both brilliant and devastating.

At first he saw the bodies, strewn across the ground, the rain pouring down them, as if trying to wipe the blood clean from the massacre. To erase the brutality that had been done here.

Then he saw the archer, his arrow poised.

That was not all, there was five other archers behind him. All aimed at one man.

Kartik.

There were volley of arrows.

Aman called Kartik’s name.

Then he woke up. 

“Kartik-” he started trying to stand, he noted his mother sitting beside, dropping her embroidery as she saw he was awake and was struggling to sit up 

Swiftly she placed a hand on his shoulder gently pushing him back down into the pillows. She stroked his cheek, calming him down, whispering words of reassurance. He let her, heart racing.

“Maa, what…what happened?” he managed to croak out after a while.

“You contracted a fever the night of Kartik’s arrest,” she explained. “You were sick for a week. I know you have always had a habit of falling ill when you were upset, but it never lasted this long, or with such intensity. The physicians were baffled.”

“A whole week?” he questioned, it had felt like an eternity and a mere moment all in one. “Is there any news of Nasireh?” he remembered the way they had left throwing the dragonfly earring to the floor. “Or from...from Kartik?”

He remembered then how he had wept in her arms. He remembered _why_ he had wept. 

Kartik’s betrayal. 

A part of him seemed to be raked raw at that thought. He wished desperately to return to the oblivion of sleep and the blissful ache of his fever, but that was not possible. He felt hollowed out, as if the illness had taken _everything_ from him. But he knew it was not the sickness that he should blame for the void that lay where his heart should be.

  
  
Sunaina shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. No news from either of them.”

  
  
“Oh.” it was all he said.

It was all he could say.

“You seem more calm,” said Sunaina. “Less enraged.”

_Don’t get sentimental._

Those had been Kartik’s words to him. They came to him now though he did not know why. 

He rose, slowly and sat up observing his rooms. It was in shambles, the curtains still ripped, the notes and Kartik’s poetry still strewn across the floor, the torn pieces of parchment, the dying white roses stained with old rusted blood. His own blood. His own destruction. He felt like weeping again. 

“Gods be good what have I done Maa?”

Sunaina leaned forward and drew him into her embrace gently combing her fingers through his hair. He took in her warmth, it seemed to be the only comfort he had right now.

“Do not worry about that now, we will have it all cleared up soon enough. I’m sorry we did not think of doing so earlier, I was so afraid I would lose you.”

_Don’t get sentimental._

He wanted to say that to his mother.

Sentiment had clouded her judgement and perhaps it had clouded everyone else’s judgment too.

He remembered how Nasireh had raged and left and how Devika had accepted her imprisonment with grace and understanding. They could not believe Kartik had done this. They could not believe that…

But couldn't they believe it? Had they not conspired with Kartik in all this? They were his most trusted advisors and Aman hardly imagined Kartik could or would stage this coup without them. 

Nasireh's rage and Devika's submission could be all an act , an elaborate ploy on their part, in order to push Aman towards accept Kartik again, to let himself be exploited. But why attack Chandan at all if this operation required his acceptance of the other king?

The more he thought about it, the less it made sense to him. So he decided it was best he should not think of it, at least not until a few more days, when the fever had left his body entirely.

He looked at the torn pieces of the letter signed by Kartik on the floor. He looked at the epic he had worked tirelessly on. The signature on the parchment was surely his, but the rest was in a hand that was unfamiliar to Aman...

The Kartik that Aman knew would never let someone else write his own letters.

But did Aman ever _truly_ know Kartik? Did he-

No he could not think of it now. His mind was running in circles, and if he was not careful he knew he would wind up hurting himself again, all the more brutally. 

_Don’t get sentimental._

And yet it was still ripping him apart bit by bit. New affronts, assaults meant to make sure he could never heal himself again.

However a part of him felt as if he had let his emotions get the better of him, that he let the anger cloud _his own_ judgement. The very thought of Kartik sullying something he had considered sacred had been so repugnant to Aman that he had perhaps lost reason. And while the evidence brought before him would make any sane man doubt his innocence (after all the question still remained how did _his_ signature get on this infernal paper), in the light of day Aman wondered whether he had been too harsh on him. 

_You are giving him a fair trial. A part_ of him whispered _that it was not harshness. Some would even call it nobility. So why do you feel this guilt?_

The answer came promptly.

_It is because you condemned him almost too wholly. You made him guilty where it mattered, in your heart and it bled into your actions. He saw that and it hurt him. You did not give him a chance, you made him your enemy again when presented with the slightest opportunity. You regret bringing up Shankar when you had vowed never to hold it against him again. You question even now whether what you feel for him is love, even though you know in your heart that it is._

“Mother,” he said, turning to her as he had once done as a child, believing she had all the answers. “Do you truly think he would do all of it?”

“I certainly wish otherwise,” she answered, hesitantly as if she was unsure whether they should be speaking of Kartik. “I never thought him capable of such betrayal, not the Kartik I knew.”

That was _exactly_ what nagged him. The Kartik Singh he had known and come to love would _never_ do this. 

The question remained however, did the Kartik Singh he had come to love with everything he was, the Kartik Singh _Tripathi_ that was his husband, did he every truly exist?

Before Aman could dwell on these thoughts much longer, there was a commotion outside his door. It seemed the guards were obstructing the entry of another person.

“I must see the king,” came the voice of Ravi the High Priest of Okhine, cutting through the clamour. 

“He is not to be disturbed.” said one of the guards. “Come back another time.”

“The matter is urgent,” Ravi persisted, there was another scuffle. “I _must_ speak with him.”

At those words Aman stood up from the bed, standing as well as his feet would allow him. In a clear commanding voice he called out:

“Let the High Priest into the room.”

  
  
There was silence from the other side of the door, a few shuffling steps, before finally the door was opened to allow Ravi inside. The priest sauntered with the familiar regal catlike grace that he possessed, but there was a desperation in his eyes that Aman had not thought could possibly possess a man like him.

Then Ravi, proud servant of Okhine, Ravi who bowed before no one, knelt before Aman, his head sinking, as if he were carrying the weight of the entire sky.

“I ask permission to see King Kartik,” he said. 

If Aman had thought his feelings could not be hurt more, he had been wrong.

“Rise Ravi, I will not see you beg. It is your right as a priest and confessor. You need not feel like you must ask my permission in order to see him.”

Why? Why did everyone feel the need to prostrate themselves before him before asking him anything? Why did they feel as if he needed to be mellowed before he could hear them out? Did everyone truly think he was cruel, that he was some tyrant, that he was doing all of this because he enjoyed it? Did they fear him?

The thought seems to scorch him to the very bone.

If he had the choice between being feared and loved, he would choose love above all else. Fear does not forge loyalty, love does. Fear does not make you a hero, love does. Fear does not bring your heart comfort, in the dead of the night when all is lost, but love does. He had chosen the path of love, again and again despite his better judgement, it saddened him that others chose to ignore his choice, let it rot in the shadows, rather than celebrate it.

_Yet I will not change my path, I will go on loving my subjects all the same, even if I must bleed and die to make them see it._

“I have tried to see him over many days,” Ravi explained.. “But Kaali would not allow it. I have not heard from Kartik himself. I thought...I thought if I got permission from you, it would override Kaali's authority…and Devika is worried.”

Kaali would not allow it? This baffled Aman. Surely Kaali respected a priest’s rights to question prisoners and a prisoner’s right to seek comfort in religion. He could not be that cruel. Not the Kaali in whose arms Aman had practically grown up in. 

Something was amiss and Aman needed to find out what it was. 

Hastily he went to the dresser and threw a robe over his shabby clothing, tying it securely over his night clothes. He had not the energy to truly dress himself. He turned to Ravi.

“We will go together than, it is about time I saw my husband,”

He made a move to leave when he felt Sunaina, who had been silently observing all the while, catch his hand.

  
  
“Aman…” she started “You have been sick for a very long time, perhaps...”

“I will see him.” said Aman firmly, he drew his hand away from his mother, feeling the absence of her warm fingers. 

He left with Ravi to where Kartik was stationed. In the smallest chambers near the servants quarters. A far cry from the rooms Kartik was used to but more comfortable than a prison cell.

Four guards stood at the door, when they saw Aman they looked around furtively, as if wishing he would simply pass them by and not speak to them. This too cast doubt in Aman’s mind. 

“I demand to see the Akhtari King,” he said as coolly as possible. He even tried adding an inflection of indifference. 

But in truth words had struggled to come out on their own accord. He had to remind himself he was doing this for the greater good. And yet saying this, calling Kartik merely 'the King of Akhtar', separating his husband's role from his own, felt as if he were tearing a limb from his body. 

A guard looked up at Aman then back to the other guards with clear discomfort. Finally he spoke.

“We are under orders…” he started.

“Who’s orders?” asked Aman, in a clipped and slightly amused tone that aimed to mildly remind the guard that his true loyalties lay with his _king_.

“Forgive me Aman,” said a voice from behind him. “The orders were mine.”

  
  
Aman turned to see Kaali, straight-backed and confident walking towards them. He gave Aman a once over in such a way that Aman was obliged to close the front of his robe more securely around him.

“You were sick for days,” Kaali explained. “I took the liberty to set things in order, I hope you do not mind.”

  
  
It was typical of Kaali, to pick up after Aman’s messes and mistakes, take over when Aman could not handle the situation himself. And perhaps a year ago Aman would not have questioned it. A year ago he would have been grateful. But today Kaali’s actions felt conspiratorial, as if he had gone behind Aman's back to take on the power of the throne. 

Aman decided his own suspicions stemmed from his fever-addled brain. He would give Kaali the benefit of the doubt.

“I do not mind,” he said softly. “However I have been hearing reports that you have not allowed Ravi High Priest to see him.”

  
  
Kaali gave him a stern look, but for once Aman seemed to sense panic behind his cold exterior. 

“He does not wish to see a priest,” said Kaali. “I have respected his wishes.”

“Then you must at least let _me_ see him."

“I cannot do that Aman,” he replied. “You have been ill for many days, look at you, you can barely stand, let alone face the bastard.”

_He is still a king, call him bastard again and I will slit your throat._ Aman wanted to cry out, but he did not.

He could not have Kaali think he had gone into some hysterical rage. He did not want Kaali to think his judgement could not be trusted. In fact Aman felt that this was the clearest his mind had been in many days.

“And…” continued Kaali. “I will not have you going before him like _this_.” he spat the word, causing Aman to feel more self-conscious about his dishevelled state. “You are barely dressed. You will not lower yourself before him like this.”

Aman scoffed “I’ve already sucked his cock, I’m not sure how much lower I can get.” 

It was an outrageous thing to say and he had said it in a fit of white hot rage. Aman had not meant for the words to escape his lips. But they had come out of their own accord. He looked up expecting Kaali to be uncomfortable, mortified, even mildly embarrassed. 

But that was not what he saw.

Instead Aman was greeted by an expression of pure disgust and absolute hatred. 

It lasted only a few seconds, Kaali had carefully controlled his features. But Aman had seen it, they loathing in his mentor’s eyes, seemed to burn into the very recesses of Aman’s heart.

_Perhaps,_ a part of him whispered. _Perhaps Kaali was your enemy all along._

But that could not be. Kaali had been his mentor, his most trusted advisor, the man who had become a father to him in the past ten years when Shankar had died. The man who had taught him everything about kingship, guided him through every trial and tribulation.

Kaali could not betray him. It was impossible.

Yet the expression on his face could not be mistaken. Aman had seen it and he did not think he had seen so much loathing concentrated on one man’s face before. It was unnatural, beyond even his own hatred for Kartik had been. He decided to probe this particular avenue, see where it went. There was a clue here, a key to the truth.

He decided to play the lovesick fool.

“I’m sorry Kaali,” he said, trying to make himself sound broken, childlike even. “I loved him, I still do.”

At least that much was true.

Kaali's expression softened, he reached out and held Aman’s face in his hands with almost fatherly affection. Something that in the past would make Aman heed his every word, for in Kaali he had seen a semblance of his missing father. He felt it now too, the lean, the need to follow Kaali's lead, but it was faint.

“Do not forget Aman,” said Kaali. “He was the rogue who coaxed you into a false paradise and left you there.”

The words, the very thought, was enough to send Aman’s mind roiling. Surfacing the emotions, the feelings of betrayal he had felt many nights ago when Kartik was taken away. A tear slipped down his cheek. He felt Kaali draw him closer into and embrace. It was almost as if he were capitalising on Aman’s need for a father figure, on his current vulnerability. 

_Don’t get sentimental._

Aman closed his eyes, he let out a sob.

_Gods be good Kartik I’m trying._

“It pains me to say this,” he stroked Aman’s hair. “But he has gloated about how he has seduced you every time I have seen him. I cannot allow you to see him, you’re emotionally compromised as it is, I cannot lose you to him again.”

“Has he truly said all that?” Aman found himself asking, not sure which answer he wanted, whether he wanted an answer at all.

“He has spoken of every time you have made love in excruciating and humiliating detail.” said Kaali. “Ever since your wedding night six months ago.”

  
  
For a moment Aman accepted it as his new truth. But the final words struck him odd.

_Ever since your wedding night six months ago._

He had not made love to Kartik that night. He remembered clearly recoiling from his touch, he remembered Kartik sleeping on the floor while he took the bed. Kartik had not even laid a hand on him that night out of respect, let alone attempt to seduce him.

Kaali was lying to him. 

The pieces of a puzzle he had not been able to make out started to come together. The questions he had started answering themselves.

Kartik had not said any of that. Kartik had not done many things.

Yet why would Kaali not want him to see Kartik? Was he afraid that Kartik would somehow convince Aman that he was innocent before the trial. But surely Kaali had presented him with enough ‘evidence’ to stop that. Unless...unless Kartik was not here in these rooms.

He may be dead or imprisoned elsewhere.

Kartik was innocent all along. He realised.

The part that wanted to rejoice at this revelation also wept.

_What have I done to him? What suffering have unwittingly put him through?_

Aman’s heartbeat furiously. Kaali’s arms seemed constricting, less like arms, more like the body of a viper, brimming with venom, ready to squeeze the life out of him. He felt like he could not breath. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to break free of Kaali and stab him then and there.

But he could not.

For Kaali to have orchestrated this, meant he had help within the palace. If he killed Kaali without proper trial and evidence, he would be killed in turn, and with Kartik perhaps dead as well there would be no one else to rule the two nations. He needed to play this game, a deadly game with all his wits about him, without recklessness. 

Suddenly Aman had an idea. One that would tell him whether Kartik was alive or not, and could perhaps help keep him alive until the trial. During that time, all he had to do was built a case against Kaali so strong that not even his most loyal followers would be able to doubt him

_Don’t get sentimental._

But the more he thought about it, the clearer it became. All the evidence, Devika and Nasireh’s reactions. Kartik’s own shock during Kaali's accusations and the letter being written mostly in someone else’s hand. _He must have tricked Kartik into signing that letter._ Aman realised. That much was now clear.

_This_ betrayal hurt worse than Kartik’s. As much as he loved Kartik, Kaali was a man he trusted almost wholly for ten years, the man he considered to be a father.

With Kartik, Aman’s anger had been white hot and blindly destructive. With Kaali, Aman’s anger turned cold, it tempered to steel. He would be patient, temper his rage until it was indestructible. Then he would wield it in a blow so violent and brutal, Kaali would not be able to get up again.

Aman wondered how many more betrayal’s the other man had orchestrated behind his back all these ten years.

_You were like a father to me, I loved you I trusted you, but you have played me like a puppet on a string._

He was disgusted, thoroughly disgusted at the way Kaali had used him, manipulated him. There was no other way of looking at it. 

He had said all that about Kartik seducing and using Aman precisely because he knew exactly how repulsive the notion would be to him. Between his initial encounter with Vakul and his countless lovers thereafter, he never truly trusted someone as wholly as he had done Kartik, and somehow Kaali had seen that. He had tried to force Aman into believing that Kartik would abuse that trust in the worst way possible. He had done it to ensure that Aman hated Kartik beyond all else. 

Kaali knew him too well. His dealings, feelings fucking everything,

_No,_ a part of him whispered. _Not everything.He may have your past, but it is frozen and unmoving, trapped behind glass. You have yourself still, and you have changed have you not?_

“You’re right Kaali,” he conceded, his heart pounding. “I have been a fool.”

  
  
“You are not a fool for thinking yourself deserving of love,”

  
  
The words would have been sweet, had Aman not known otherwise. Now they seemed false, constructed to mollify Aman. 

“Will you do me but one favour Kaali?” said Aman. “So I can put my mind at ease.”

“Anything,”

“You swear it?”

  
  
“By all the gods.”

Aman took in a deep breath and pulled himself out of Kaali’s arms.

“I want every single word of any conversation he has with you to be written down and I want _him_ to sign it,” he said. “Let him sign it over and over again, every day every week, every hour. So that he will remember again and again why and how he has betrayed me.”

He would know Kartik’s hand anywhere, his signature especially. 

Kaali knew that too, he had used it against him after all. Thus if Kaali brought back a forged signature Aman would know that Kartik would be dead. If he brought a true signature, he would know Kartik to be alive, imprisoned but alive.

Aman too the liberty to glance towards Ravu noticed his shocked expression, he noticed his disbelief and the anger that came with it. He saw the other man shake his head in anger.

He could only watch indifferent as Ravi left.

If convincing the world he hated his lover was the price he had to pay for Kartik’s release he would pay for it a thousand times over, sign his own name in blood if he had to.

“Surely you are above this petty revenge,” said Kaali, frowning.

For this work Aman had to convince Kaali that he hated Kartik thoroughly enough to let go of all nobility, hated him terribly enough to be petty. And Aman did, he did hate, only that anger was not directed at Kartik.

“I’m not above petty revenge,” he whispered, looking Kaali in the eye. “Not when it comes to those who have betrayed me.”

  
  
The words had come easily. He had not lied. 

~~~

The only reason why he knew exactly seven days had passed was because the guards that attended to him in his prison cell had told him so. Even then he could not bring himself to believe them. If there was one truth in this prison cell it was the pain, the pain in his limbs that manifested through violent shades blue blooming over his skin. And the pain in his soul, the slow ebbing away of hope. 

He was coming to accept that he would die here amidst the torture.

Initially his whole being had rebelled against the thought, rebelled so viciously it seemed to want to leap from his throat. Yet now he was slowly coming to terms with it, slowly coming to accept it, slowly coming to embrace-

No. No he would not embrace death. Not now, not until he absolutely had to.

The resumption of his nightmares and the worsening state of his shoulder were painful enough but Kaali had his own designs. As such Kartik’s days went like this:

He would be awoken sharply from his nightmares by the guards, Kaali's men, but Kartik's waking hours did not bring him any reprieve. He would be forced to eat a morsel of stale, sometimes mouldy bread as well as a cup of water. 

That would be his only meal for the day.

If he did not eat, the guards who were feeding him would exercise the power of their fists to make him comply. Sometimes if he _did_ eat, they would do it anyway. Kartik considered this a warm up to the rest of his day.

Next Kaali would arrive. His methods changed from time to time. A slow meandering of techniques in order to probe him, test him, remind him that he was no longer in power. The one that was the most common was being beaten with a stick. Hard enough to bruise his body, but not so hard as to break his bones. After all if there were broken bones discovered his dead body after his supposed ‘suicide’ it would be undeniable proof that he had been tortured, and Kaali could not have that.

Kaali would often watch him as he was beaten, commanding the stop and the start. He would even use that word, _command._ He would say _I command you to stop._ As if to remind Kartik that power no longer resided in him anymore, to remind him he was no longer king.

Sometimes Kaali would take his midday meal in these cells, glutting himself while Kartik practically starved, drinking wine while Kartik prayed for an end to his thirst. In the end he would wipe his hands with the torn cloth of Kartik’s turban, as if it were a rag, and not once the symbol of his glory.

He was also denied his medicine, both for his shoulder and his nightmares. He was forced to relive the Battle of the Broken Will almost every hour, his body giving itself wholly to the visions, the memories of blood and carnage from a battle he longed to forget. When Kaali had realised this, that the trauma brought by the Battle of the Broken Will would plague him, he would prompt these reactions on his own accord, asking him questions of his time in Battle with deceptive innocence.

Yesterday however. Yesterday had been the worst torture of all.

Kaali had come in. After having Kartik beaten again, he had produced a pipe. 

In a matter of seconds Kartik smelled the familiar sickly sweet stench of burning opium. He had been three years clean but the pain in his shoulder, the ravaging of his soul from the nightmares, the brutality of his beatings had made him want it.

He wanted to fall into unconsciousness, oblivion. He _wanted_ the opium. His whole body sang for it.

Kaali’s eyes had met his.

“Would you like some?”

It took all determination he had in him to shake his head.

“Pity,” Kaali had muttered, he had gone on smoking the pipe.

But another question had come Kartik’s mind.

“How could you know all this?”

“I read it Qabid’s journal while he healed you, the day you were almost killed in the forest on the journey to Shafaq.” said Kaali. “I never wanted Rakesh to kill you that day you know.” 

That was another thing Kartik had learnt. Mandhav was in truth a thief named Rakesh. 

“ _This”_ Kaali had gestured to the cell. “This had been my plan all along.” he had smiled and came towards Kartik, the stench of opium becoming stronger. “Fascinating your childhood and adolescence, with your father and later the opium.” he waved the smoking pipe just under Kartik’s noise.

Kartik felt utterly humiliated. His past was a blight in a life he otherwise considered a blessing. To have Kaali know about it, to have him practically fetsishise and parade if before Kartik it for his own gain, made Kartik sick to the core. But what Kaali said and done next had doubled the feelings of humiliation.

“Gods I can’t believe it, the King of Akhtar,a dependant and an opium addict.” his eyes had swept over Kartik then. “You have just proven that the Akhtari are all savages, have you seen yourself lately.” 

Suddenly there had been a glint in Kaali's eyes, he gestured for a guard to come closer.

"Let your shield be a mirror,"

The guard had proffered his polished before Kartik and for the first time in weeks the King took a good look at himself. He was dishevelled, his hair and beard had grown. He looked like a madman, a wild thing. He had become thinner, his body covered in grime. He had looked…

“You look just like your drunkard of a father,” Kaali place opium pipe on Kartik's lips as he said so. Kartik had turned his head violently. “It won’t be long until you succumb to your vices like him too.”

For a moment, a brief moment Kartik had wished someone would him then and there.

He was keeping himself from sinking, succumbing to despair, wholly by a single thread of hope, the hope that soon Aman would realise that he had not lied, that he was not the traitor.

He was not sure how long that hope would last.

The door of his cell opened and Kaali himself appeared. Kartik steeled himself for another one of their gruelling conversations, when he noticed the piles of papers in Kaali’s arms. Instead of the usual stick the guards brought in two chairs and a small table.

As always Kartik spoke first. He liked to get the first word in, he felt like it gave him some sort of edge.

“Come here to finish off all the paperwork that you’ve left behind now that you spend most of your time with me?”

Kaali ignored him and sat himself down on one of the chairs. He motioned for the guard to bring the other chair and table forth. There was something oddly familiar about the guard, the way he walked, but through the haze of his pain and the tiredness of having to deal with Kaali’s actions, Kartik did not register it.

“Untie him,” said Kaali.

This _did_ surprise Kartik. When they had their 'conversations', he would remain bound to these infernal posts. His shoulder, now used to the unnatural position, pained him anew as his bonds were loosened.

Kaali smiled. “Here I need you to sign these.”

Kartik was led to the seat opposite Kaali. He had long learned his lesson about signing documents without reading them. He took the papers in his hand and read each and every word. It took him the better part of an hour. He felt like an illiterate discovering words for the first time. 

As he read through the words, as they started making sense his heart sank. It was a transcript, pre-prepared, filled with the most inflamed vitriol, the most humiliating things, all coming from Kartik himself and directed towards Aman.

“I cannot sign this,” he said. “I will _not_ sign this.”

“I thought you would not,” said Kaali. “Did I tell you that Aman _wanted_ these signed?”

Kartik looked at this “He would _not_ make me sign this? He knows...he knows none of this is true. This is all your doing.”

“He means it as punishment,” said Kaali. “You and I both know how he is when he desires revenge, how he can give himself to pettiness.”

Only if he felt like he been wronged thoroughly. And perhaps from Aman’s point of view Kartik had wronged him thoroughly.

“He _truly_ wishes me to sign these falsehoods?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Kaali. “It delays my plans, but only by so much. I will satisfy his request for as long as he requires it. I could kill you the day before the trial, and Aman would be none the wiser.”

The information as whole took Kartik aback. He had thought himself strong but in truth he had been a fool. The prime fool. The king of fools. All his hopes had rested on the fact that Aman would realise the truth. That he would come around. But he had not. Aman’s hate for him had only deepened. 

This did not sound like the man he had come to love.

The realisation made him weak, buckled him, brought him more low than any form of torture Kaali could come up with.

_If this is what Aman wants then so be it._

So it came to be in Kartik’s moment of weakness. He signed. 

_Kartik Singh_

A part of him, a part that he thought had been strong all these years died then and there. He was not the man he thought himself to be. And perhaps he had never been,

Kaali nodded. He took up the signed papers in silence and left. There was a change of guards.

One guard, the familiar one however remained to tie him up again.

Kartik let out a bitter laugh at his situation. He used to be a King once, the world had been at his command.

_Haven't you heard?_ The winds seemed whispered amongst themselves. _The Akhtari King has killed himself with a single stroke of his pen_

“You know,” he said to the guard as lead him towards the posts and started tying up one hand. “You have more power than me now, you could whatever you want, beat me, cut me, tear my clothes apart.” The sherwani had been Aman’s present to him, but he could not bring himself to care. “You could do anything and no one will give a flying fuck. No even me. So why don’t you just go ahead and do something.”

He wanted someone to hurt him. He wanted-

“I would never do something so dishonourable as to hurt my king.” guard whispered in Kartik’s ear as he fastened the knots. 

Kartik knew that voice, he had heard it many times.

“Zaim?” he was Nasireh’s second in command. “How did you-”

“I got a guard drunk and stole their armour,” he finished tying the knots on one hand and preceded to the other. “After Nasireh, left I could not find them, so I had to do something. I’m going to get you out of here. Kaali wants you dead I will not allow it.”

“You fooled even me.” Kartik admitted. “I would hug you if my hands weren’t so conveniently being tied.” he paused. “And Devi, how is she?”

  
  
“In her rooms locked up. Ravi visits her often, much more I do not know.”

“And Aman…”

Zaim paused. “He was in a fever for many days after your arrest but I am afraid he has truly succumbed to Kaali’s manipulations. There is no hope with him.”

_You are there, like a godsend for those who think they have no hope_ Kartik had once said to Aman _You would be the hero of our tale_.

He had been wrong.

He had been wrong about everything. 

The shadow between them had never been the ghost of Shankar Tripathi but rather the manipulation of Kaali. This news was a tragedy in itself a confirmation of all that was terrible. It was strange, the way of the world, to present him a love so beautiful, so intoxicating, so seemingly unshakeable only to rip it away from him in the most brutal way possible. 

“Why are you here then? Let me die Zaim I have failed, I am no longer your King, I am no longer strong, you saw with your own eyes how you I signed-”

  
  
“You are keeping yourself alive for the time being,” said Zaim. “All I ask is that you continue to do so for a little while longer. I will get your out of here”

With that Zaim fastened the cords around Kartik's wrists and left. 

______________

[Coney Island (Taylor Swift](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_p_TBaHvos)) - For that Line

[You Can’t Take Me (Bryan Adams)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ld6NOWWj7e4) \- For Kartik

[Champion (Fall Out Boy)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJJpRl2cTJc) \- For Kartik

[Baptize Me (X Ambassasors & Jacob Banks)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRRfi3yOT8g) \- A vibe

  
  


[CH 13 Art](https://www.instagram.com/p/CLLahPthIpC/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)

[Nasireh Art](https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/17891351245555376/)


	55. Plans Within Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Devika reads a book and Ganaki spills some beer.
> 
> (summaries are fun I should do them more often)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well for the first time in a long time I'm updating on Friday once again :D
> 
> Uni had started and just an update on my life I've been watching many true crime and supernatural documentaries don't ask me why. I recognise this isn't an update but yeah I thought you guys should know.
> 
> Anyway thank you once again to Johnny (can I call you Jonno?) for yet again another lovely artwork this time of Sunflower. I'll link it below (fuck it I sound like YouTuber) Please shower them with love.
> 
> Also yeah I haven't edited this chapter once again fight me.

I would advise the spider

When making its web

To not be cautious of its enemies

But its friends

-Extract from  _ The Glass Mosaic _

Devika was trying her best to get her mind off things. She had determined that it would do no good to constantly think about Rajni’s death, Kartik’s arrest or Aman’s waning health. It would do no good to think of the grief of the rest of the family or ruminate over Kaali’s increasing insistence on not letting Ravi see Kartik, despite it being his right as a priest to do so. If she continued to do so constantly she would inevitably go mad. 

So she spent her time reading, writing, playing board games with herself or talking with Ravi whenever he came to visit. She would not allow herself to mourn for anyone just yet. She would not allow herself to despair.

Ravi had been trying his best to get news of Kartik. Everyday morning he tried to get in contact with Aman, but it came to be that very soon after Kartik’s arrest the Mahanit king had fallen ill.  _ A deadly fever  _ so the rumours went  _ unlike any the physicians have seen before. _ As much as Devika wanted to hate Aman wholly for allowing Kartik to be put into a sire situation she could not help but feel pity for his current state. 

She wished she could at least see him for herself. He had become a friend to her in the end and she would have had to be completely heartless to even insinuate that she did not worry for him in the slightest.

Ravi would always return to her rooms mid-morning to let her know that once again Aman could not be contacted. He did not however return today. She hoped this meant that Aman was well and that Ravi was finally granted permission to see Kartik. 

But as with most things she knew this thought would consume her if left unchecked, as such she spent the morning reading a novel, Kartik’s favourite. It was a romance titled  _ The Warrior and the Necromancer _ . It was a sensationalised retelling of a fairly minor event in Akhtari history so Devika never bothered reading in full, despite Kartik’s obvious passion for it. 

In fact one of the reasons why she had neglected reading it was because Kartik loved it so much. She had often made it a point in their adolescence to scoff at things he liked. Especially romances.

Despite this pledge of her teenage years she found that she enjoyed the adventures of Necromancer and Princess Halima and her lover Galila, a warrior. She understood why Kartik loved it so much. 

She was determined that if she ever saw him again she would apologise for not reading or appreciating it for so many years, and she would let him talk about the tale for hours on end if need be, instead of scoffing off his impassioned analysis as she had been fond of doing the past.

The hours flew by and Devika kept making mental notes on which sections in particular of this novel she would talk about with Kartik. Currently she was up to the part when Galila was about to sacrifice herself for Halima when the door to her room burst open. 

In an instant Devika’s hand went to her knife, her constant companion, ready to strike, to kill if need be.

She relaxed however when she saw that it was only Ravi. She was about to ask him whether he had managed to see Kartik whether Aman was alright. The question died in her throat when she saw that he was trembling. 

She stood up in an instant from her bed throwing her book aside. For as long as she had known him Ravi he had been completely cool and collected in nature. Seeing him like this, so thoroughly shaken, completely disarmed Devika, she did not know what to make of it.

In what seemed like an oncoming fit of rage, for the trembling could simply not be caused by fear, Devika almost expected him to slam the door behind him. But he did not do so, when he closed the door, he did it with his usual care, the door resting softly against its frame. 

His rage though clearly visible through his whale body, was a disciplined and controlled one. 

He simply sat down on one of the chairs. Devika resumed her seat on her bed and waited. After a few minutes his anger seemed to ease. Finally he spoke. 

“We were wrong.” 

Devika frowned, unable to discern his meaning. 

“Wrong about what?”

“About Aman,”

It took a few moments for those words to sink in. For the realisation to settle. She resisted it, rebelled against it, she wanted there to be room for doubt, for everything to somehow turn on its head and turn out for the better. 

“What happened?” she asked trying to maintain her composure.

“I was finally let into Aman’s room.” he said.

Devika’s heart started beating at an impossible rate. Could it be possible that Aman finally succumbed to fever?. 

“How was he?”

“He could barely stand the fever’s utterly ruined him. Yet even so, when I told him that Kaali would not let me talk to Kartik, he was determined to see him.”

“Then why are you so angry.” she asked. “Is that not a good thing. I always knew that he would come around and see the truth of it all. He-”

“Devi forgive me, you have not heard the full story,” he said, bowing his head. “I know that...you have hope in him and I do not want to shatter it believe me...are you sure you are ready to hear it?”

“I would rather you tell me the truth of the matter,” she replied. “I would rather that than have you hide it from me.”

Ravi took in a deep breath.

“When we eventually came to Kartik’s supposed chambers near the servant’s quarters Kaali came and interrupted...somehow he was able to...manipulate Aman, play him like he was a puppet.” he paused, the rage that had settled on his features started to simmer again. “And the worst thing was that Aman did not even seem to realise it or put up even a bit of a fight. It’s like he forgot he had once loved Kartik at all.”

“Perhaps he has a plan,” Devika found herself saying. “It does not sound like Aman, not the man I know.”

“Perhaps you never truly knew him.” he said spat, a hint of cynicism in voice. “Whatever this may be I do not think Kartik is in the quarters that Aman had assigned to him. Why else would Kaali forbid me seeing him?”

“ _ Kaali _ was the one who led him to the rooms, not Aman he was to stricken by grief” as soon as the words came out of her mouth the realisation hit her, like lightning illuminating the darkest of night. “Gods be good Ravi, Kaali must have Kartik imprisoned somewhere or he could be…”

_ Dead.  _ She did not say it, but they both heard it clear enough. 

_ No  _ she thought.  _ You can’t be dead you goddamed son of a bitch, you fucking cunt, I still need to tell you about how much I came to enjoy The Warrior and the Necromancer.  _

Rajni, her friend, was already gone and taken from her. Devika had only known her for a few months and yet her loss still cut to the bone. She was not sure she could lose another friend one who had been there her whole life. 

Ravi seemed to sense her, he reached out and held her hand in reassurance.

“I’ll to find him, or die trying.” he promised.

Before she could answer once again the door to her room opened. 

Devika turned to see a short slight man dressed in the characteristic uniform of the guards. She drew her hand away from Ravi’s. While she knew the guards were merely doing their job, a part of her could not help but feel like they had become the enemy. The sight of their familiar uniform was starting to become a thing of fear and almost hatred for her.

She did not need to look at Ravi to know he was mortified as well. Holding her hand in a reassuring manner would be unseemly for a priest who was supposed to get a confession out of her. Devika’s mind quickly ran through various excuses she could give him. A new confession method perhaps?

She was so lost in her thoughts that at first she did not see the other figure beside the guard. 

When she did at a second her heart almost skipped a beat. It had been a long while since she had seen a familiar face other than Ravi. 

“Qabid?” she questioned as if unsure whether the figure beside the guard was truly him.

But it could be no other. He had the same white hair and beard, with the same austere expression, the same kind eyes and grey healer’s robe. Qabid nodded in response to her question, confirming his presence. 

Before she could ask what was happening the door closed hastily behind them and the guard he took off his helm. 

When Devika saw the guard’s face, her fears slowly melted away like ice on the first warm spring morning. 

“Zaim?” she questioned. As glad as she was of his presence, she had not thought to see him here.

“Lady Devika” he acknowledged.

She could no longer hide her glee. Getting up from her bed she practically ran into his arms, holding him close to her. He was a head shorter than her and much slighter, she had forgotten that, she had not seen him for weeks. When she let go of him she went next to embrace Qabid. His familiar fatherly arms made her feel like she was ten years old again. It made her feel protected.

“What are you both doing here?” she asked, pulling away. “Both of you.”

“I bring news of our king” he answered. “And Qabid is here to help discuss a plan for his escape.”

“Escape?” she whispered, she didn't even know where the hell Kartik was and here Zaim was already planning their King’s escape. “I thought Kartik would be given a fair trial. Aman-”

“Aman has been manipulated and tricked in the worst way possible,” said Ravi. “We can’t trust him with anything Devi.”

“Kaali plans on killing Kartik before the trial,” Zaim explained. “I have heard him practically tell Kartik. He would not want him to get the trial, because there is always a chance that Aman would proclaim him innocent.”

Devika had never liked Kaali but she had never thought him capable of such barbarism. She had been so naive, caught up in some sort of fantasy ever since Kartik and Aman married. But if Zaim had heard Kaali and Kartik speaking, he must know where he is.

“Where  _ exactly _ are they keeping Kartik?”

Zaim did not meet her eye. He did not deem to answer. This only served to heighten Devika’s rising dread. She needed to know.

“Zaim where is he?”

“You don’t-”

“Fucking dammit tell me!”

Her voice rang through the room in echoes, like the residual sound of a ringing bell in a temple.

Zaim stood straighter and finally met her eye.

“He is in the palace dungeons, tied up. I saw him this morning, after I stole the uniform from a drunk guard. He had bruises all over his body. He was bleeding-”

Another memory came to her from Zaim’s words. The day that Kartik came from the training yard, twelve years old, pale covered in bruises, a wound at his side. She never had to ask him what had happened, she knew all too well what his father had been capable of in his drunkenness. 

For the first time she had thought he could live his life here in Shafaq without the fear of being abused, without the control of the drug. But he was in the dungeons, and the gods only knew what kind of brutalities he had been subjected to.

She needed to get him out.

She made a move to walk out of the room, but Qabid placed both his hands on her shoulder, effectively blocking her exit.

“Patience,” he cautioned, he made her meet his eye. “Despite yourself, you’ve always been flighty. Let me warn you that storming out may earn you a heroic death or martyrdom of some sort Devika Shah but that will do nothing to keep Kartik alive. Do you understand?”

His voice was stern and grounding as it always had been. She looked back in his steely eyes the cloud of recklessness slipped away. She nodded in answer.

~~~

The first part of Parvaaz’s plan was to discern the situation in Shafaq. Since Rakesh had graciously decided not to tell him anything the only avenue for news from the Capital was through Kaali’s letters which Parvaaz knew to be kept in the room the Kartik and Aman had once occupied, the room that Rakesh now kept for himself. 

If the situation in Shafaq was as he suspected, with Kaali in control and Kartik and Aman somehow stripped of power, he would need to contact allies from the outside, from other nations in order to free them. Parvaaz also decided he needed to get a message across to Shafaq to let everyone know the truth of the matter in Chandan. 

In order to do all that he needed the keys to the pigeonry in Chandan’s palace.

He also needed to get rid of Rakesh one way or another. While he had no quite figured it out, the option of murder was becoming the most appealing one by far.

Almost a month had passed of the city’s conquest, when Parvaaz was summoned from his sparse room to Rakesh’s presence in the palace’s throne room, a bastardised version of the court Kartik and Aman had held. For a moment he considered whether he  _ could _ get away with killing Rakesh then and there. Though Parvaaz was not a violent man, when it came to Rakesh, aman who had committed atrocities and continued to do so, Parvaaz found he would be more than happy to slit the sorry bastard’s throat himself. 

In the throne room Rakesh had draped himself carelessly over one of the two thrones, on the other sat a young woman, with sunken eyes and a haggard haunted face. She would have been beautiful were she not so clearly miserable. She also seemed ashamed and uncomfortable at occupying a throne where the consorts of Mahan once sat, where Kartik had once sat. 

The sight of her like this made Parvaaz’s blood boil too.

Not because she was sitting on the throne that had been Kartik’s. No he could not fault her for it. He was angry at Rakesh. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this woman paraded as a mistress was an unwilling one at best. 

He could not forget the day that Rakesh had asked for the women of Chandan to brought before him to inspect for pleasure.

Parvaaz fought the urge to strangle him then and there but he needed to play this safe.

“I’m leaving,” Rakesh announced once Parvaaz stood before him. “I’ll be leaving Kopek in charge.”

Kopek was a large man, one of Kaali’s cronies, the epitome of brawn over brain. It was an entirely stupid careless move on Rakesh’s part, to leave Chandan to an illiterate brute of a man. No doubt tyranny would be abound, however this could prove to be beneficial for Parvaaz.

“Where are you leaving to?” he asked. 

If pressed Rakesh’s gloating nature could give away to a talkativeness that more often than not worked in Parvaaz’s advantage.

“Shafaq.” Rakesh announced proudly. 

“You come back will you not?”

Rakesh laughed. “No.”

_ Thank the gods  _ a part of Parvaaz whispered. But there was another part that alarmed him. What business could he possibly have in Shafaq? It was all the more frustrating since Parvaaz did not know even know the state of affairs in Shafaq.

“Do you have some business then,” Parvaaz continued. “That requires you to give up leadership over Chandan? This city is a rich one are you tired of your plunders”

“Oh I am definitely not tired” Rakesh smiled at the woman beside him reaching to grab her thigh, she recoiled from his touch. “You see one way or another I will die if I stay in Chandan. I’m not stupid.”

Parvaaz wanted to scoff but in truth Rakesh did have some sort of fiendish cleverness about him. It was not enough though.

“Aman will eventually come here with his armies.” continued Rakesh. “He will behead me. As I have said before I am Kaali’s scapegoat. Better get myself out of this shit before I die.”

“But why go all the way to Shafaq? Isn’t Kaali there?”

“He is. But the love of my life is also waiting for me there.”

“The love of your life?” 

From Rakesh’s lecherous and disgusting behaviour towards the women of Chandam, Parvaaz never thought that he would commit himself to anyone let alone be in love.

“Her name is Kusum, I’m sure you have met her.”

Kusum? Kusum Acharya? Rajni’s Kusum?

Not that could not be. Kusum loved Rajni, he had seen it. While he himself had no romantic or sexual feelings for anyone whatsoever that did not mean he was completely blind, when it manifested in those around him. 

Their love for each other was palpable.

Rakesh could only be lying.

He did not say this aloud, he needed to placate Rakesh and get him out of the way as soon a possible.

“I wish you well on your journey then,” said Parvaaz. “May I be excused.”

“Of course, remember to be a good little prisoner of war while I’m gone.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Even when Rakesh was trying to be condescending, it came off as childish in Parvaaz’s ears.

The scholar allowed himself to be led out by the guards pondering the possibility of Rakesh’s absence. Kopek could be easily controlled and eventually killed. While there was also the issue of having to deal with Kaali’s other men and supporters, it  _ could _ be achieved if he managed to free Bodha’s men and those who were still loyal to the Combined Nations.

As he was led through the halls Parvaaz spied Ganaki walking towards them from the other end, she was carrying a cask of beer in her arms no doubt ordered to be brought to the throne room by Rakesh. He dared not make any contact or communication with the former innkeeper. He did not want the guards to suspect anything of their new found alliance.

As she came to pass them however, her feet seemed to catch themselves on the pleats of her sari and she came crashing down onto the floor, the caskets of beer splitting open as she fell. 

Parvaaz instantly rushed forward to help Ganaki while the guards cursed, calling for servants to clean up the mess. He held her hands as he helped her up, steadying her to her feet, wondering how she could be careless as of this moment, it was very much unlike her.

It was then she pressed something in his hand.

It was then that Parvaaz understood her carelessness came from a place of calculation. 

In his hands Ganaki had mould, a cast. It could only be for one thing. 

The key to the pigeonry.

* * *

Song for this Chapter was the [Winterfell Theme from Game of Thrones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rdCgUXwqnI). Idk I just had it on loop while writing this chapter.

[ Sunflower Art by Johnny ](https://www.instagram.com/p/CLQxSMGhYZg/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)

**Works inspired by this one:**

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